


His Addiction

by jarethsdragon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Debatable consent, F/M, Fluffy, Hanzo is a kinky guy, Happy Ending, Lactation Kink, Milk kink, Overwatch - Freeform, Pregnancy, Yakuza, Yakuza Genji Shimada, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada, Yakuza!Hanzo, dfab, genji shimada - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarethsdragon/pseuds/jarethsdragon
Summary: Hanzo has found his addiction—a sexy mother.  The problem is that every addictive high, brings a terrible low and the Dragon of the South is no exception.  When his father dies, Hanzo is faced with the fallout from indulging his addiction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cell007](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cell007).



> Edited slightly because of a big continuity error. Thanks to the anonymous person who pointed it out.

You had been part of the Shimada household in Hanamura for as long as you could remember. At times, it was tense and bristled with heavily armed men. Some times it was a drunken brawl lit up with drugs and stories and prostitutes like fluorescent graffiti on black velvet. Other times, it was timeless in the way that only truly old buildings and families that had been around since the creation of the world could be.

So, for years, you had served in any way you were told. Mostly, it was cleaning and dusting. Occasionally, it was wiping up vomit or other fluids from wild parties. Sometimes you were lucky enough that it was just shopping for various household things like incense and soap.

Ironically, for a low level servant like yourself, it was almost never fun.

You had a life, such as it was. You dated a guy—a Shimada cousin so distant that he didn’t even carry their name—and fell in lust with him. You were pleased when you were carrying the child, even though the boy-man in question was over you in just a few weeks and moving on. You lost them both the same night when you and he were coming back from the Bon Festival and you were attacked by a rival gang member. He was shot directly and you were wounded before the Shimada arrived in force and took them out.

You were in the hospital when you were told the bad news. A scan showed that the baby was tragically deformed—the skull and the brain. There was no chance of more than a few hours of life outside the womb. In medical kindliness, they offered you the horrifying choice of an abortion. You had barely wrapped your mind around that when the news reported the shooting of Shimada Sojiro.

The doctors told you it was a combination of the sudden shocks and injuries and the deformities of the child, but you lost the baby that night.

When you finally had recovered, you were sent back to Hanamura with a pile of prescriptions and therapies and an outfit that you barely felt decent in. Your chest was over two cup sizes larger than before your pregnancy and your hips were wider. With the belly support garment—a modern day corset if you ever saw one—you looked positively decadently and lushly curved. Unfortunately, the servant who had sent over your clothes had sent ones that were from before your pregnancy and the knit top and stretchy skirt were straining to keep your body decent.

If it was luck that you managed to make it back to Hanamura covered and with no seams splitting, then that was the last bit of good luck you were to have. Born on Friday the 13th, bad luck was to you what gold was to Midas. And the bad luck continued because the first face you saw when you got out of the car at Hanamura was none other than the acting kumicho himself—Shimada Hanzo.

He paused in the doorway to stare at you. He was absolutely gorgeous as he stood there—in a sharply tailored Western-style suit in dark grey with a lighter grey shirt and a brilliant turquoise tie with a small tie pin with what could only be a diamond on it. Two of the kyodai—the “older brothers” who were the more senior members of the Shimada-kai—stood around him, waiting patiently for orders. A smart looking vehicle pulled up just as your taxi left and the body guards bustled out to open the passenger door.

Hanzo stared an uncomfortably long time, not even acknowledging your bow and greeting. “You are back?”

“Hai,” you nodded.

“Finally,” he muttered, glancing at the papers in your hands. One of the kyodai said something and Hanzo only raised a finger in acknowledgement before he was silenced. “Go to Hana-san. Tell her that I will see you when I get back.” You bowed slightly, still in a numb sort of pain. “I have left instructions, and...I am...very glad to see you.”

“Domo arigatogozaimashita, Shimada-sama,” you murmured with another numb bow. “Thank you very much.”

He nodded and continued on his way with a stern expression on his face. The kyodai left right behind him without acknowledging you and they all went into the car. The bodyguard closed the door and slipped into the driver’s seat and they rode off in a sleek silver rush of expensive purring.

Without a better direction, you went to the servant’s quarters where Hana the housekeeper was impatiently tallying household receipts for her weekly reports. Hana kept her long silver hair in a tight silver bun that seemed to pull her face into a permanent scowl and kept scratching the hairy mole on her cheek.

“So you’re back are you?” Hana asked with a bit of a harsh tone. “The Master has been asking when you were going to finally return.”

“I apologize for the disruption,” you muttered in return. Why on Earth was he at all concerned with when you were returning? Did you really sort socks and dust that well?

“I have been instructed to tell you that you will be seeing the young Master tonight. He has made time in his schedule to see you—even with his father so injured—and he will be explaining your...new duties.” She frowned as though she had something distasteful in her mouth—maybe a green persimmon or a rotten lemon—and kept going. “I have been informed that you will no longer be working as a household servant.”

You felt yourself grow pale. You had lost your job—what other explanation was there? Or was it more? Did he blame you for his kinsman’s death? You were out of answers and hurting as another servant led you to a small bedroom in the family’s wing. Another servant came and offered you a small plate with mochi on it and a pot of hot green tea.

“Oh, wait!” You were startled to see the servant gather up the papers and the small bottle of pain relievers the hospital had given you until you could fill your prescriptions. The servant bustled out with everything you had brought home without stopping. “I need those!”

The door was closed and locked before you could say anything else. So you were stuck waiting for the Hanzo to return. Waiting patiently was not your strong point and you knew that in a few hours, the pain relieving medicines would wear off and you knew you would be in agony. So, you explored the suite as best you could.

It was terrifying seeing how carefully this suite had obviously been prepared for your return. Some of it you kind of expected. There was an array of books—novels and biographies and anthologies—that you were curious to read. There was a wall mounted television with an array of movie channel subscriptions. There was a small refrigerator filled to bursting with bottles of water—sparkling, still and flavored. The bathroom—small but luxurious—had a jacuzzi tub along with a pile of towels and linens, Epsom salts (which were recommended by the hospital for muscle aches), tiny bars of soaps in a variety of pleasing scents.

The unexpected stuff terrified you. There were a few books—obviously new—on post-partum care and a journal with your initial on the cover. There was a hospital grade call button attached to the wall. The clothes in the dresser were a mix of maternity wear—belly covers, nursing bras and orthopedic socks and such—and sexy pieces obviously designed to appeal to a man. In the closet was a small cart with the same brand of breast pump that the hospital had used, along with several replacement parts and a whole bunch of bottles and caps. There was a book on breastfeeding a baby. In one of the cabinets, you found a colorfully printed chart of “Best Foods to Increase Milk Supply” hanging over a wicker basket of the recommended snacks and a couple of bottles in the bathroom of breastfeeding supplements.

Every time you opened a drawer or cabinet, it was more blindingly apparent that this suite was no mere guest suite—but had instead been prepared exclusively and entirely with you in mind. You couldn’t stop shaking as you pulled out a packet of mixed nuts and a tea bag marked with the tag of “Mother’s Milk” and tried to find a comfortable place to sit and read one of the novels until the young Master returned.

Apparently your top half had not gotten the message that there was no baby. Your breasts simply ached and you drug the cart to the sitting area. Thankfully, there were complete instructions for setup and usage in English, Japanese, Chinese and what appeared to be French. You were about to get started when you found a brilliant red sticky note on the manual.

“Do the entire cycle every time, every 3 hours until told otherwise. I will be notified each time you use the pump—do not disappoint me. Hanzo”

Frowning, you settled down on the overstuffed chair and put the plastic cups over your nipples nervously. The machine puffed and sucked in a steady rhythm and you were more than relieved when the milky liquid began flowing out and into the attached bottles. The tightness faded into a bearable pressure and then became a warm release. The machine impersonally sucked and puffed—the rhythm becoming soothing as the timer counted down.

It was disappointing that so little came out. After all the puffing and noise, you were honestly expecting a lot more than the little puddles in the bottom of the bottles. Annoyed, you dumped them in the bathroom sink and washed the pieces before setting it all back up on the cart.

You were going to lay on the bed when you saw something new on the television. There was a digital countdown in the corner now—02:49:34. It was frightening and for a moment you went back to the cart and picked the various pieces up to examine them. There it was, an extra bump on the bottom of the pump where it had been modified. Obviously, it was capable of broadcasting based on WiFi or something—which explained how you were going to be monitored and how the alarm was set.

In less than 3 hours you would need the cart again, but you really needed a nap in the meantime. So you hauled the damn cart to the bedside and plugged in the pump. Then you laid down for a nap. The television chimed loudly when the countdown ended, waking you from your nap. Blindly, you fumbled around, wondering when you had set your alarm on your phone, but couldn’t find it. Finally you realized where you were and sat up.

It wasn’t until you finally gathered your wits enough to start the pumping again that the alarm stopped. Relieved, you laid back down to await the inevitable end of the timer on the thing. One more time you were disappointed in the paltry amount and dumped it in the sink.

More than a little furious at the man, you took out some water and looked at the new countdown on the television. It was frustrating that you couldn’t even ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

You piddled around for the next 3 hour period, not doing anything interesting and ultimately deciding that you were going to go back to sleep. The time felt different now that you knew that you had something to do every 3 hours. The pain relievers were almost completely out of your system, making you feel antsy. The nurses and doctors had been very careful to make sure that you were in no pain whatsoever, and quite frankly you were terrified what you might feel like unmedicated.

It was terror that you felt. You were sure of it.

You pumped and dumped it. The milk seemed marginally thicker, whiter and maybe there was a little more. Sleep was your friend, though, and it came more naturally to you as a way to avoid staring at the countdown timer on the television. It had been a hell of a week....

When you awoke again to the sound of the alarm, it was again disorienting to be in this unfamiliar room. Your muscles ached strangely, making you more tense as you realized that you were still trapped. One hand fumbled out to reach for the cart and it wasn’t there.

Opening your eyes more fully, you saw the hulking form of Hanzo sitting in a chair next to your bed. He was most casually attired in sweat pants and a t-shirt that hugged his muscles unmercifully as well as showing off the dragon tattoo twisting down his left arm. He smiled as you watched him from the bed.

“Good evening,” he nodded.

“W-w-what do you want with me?” you asked softly.

“That is hardly a polite greeting,” he chuckled. “Do you like this suite?”

You sat up, feeling a tingling in your chest. “I...that is, thank you. It-it-it’s lovely.” You frowned. “Really, it’s a lovely suite. And...and it was really nice for you to arrange everything.”

“Good,” he nodded. “I am pleased that you have everything you need.” He gestured. “I will expect you to tell me if there is anything you lack.”

“Just...what do you want with me?”

He smiled in what might be a gentle grin. “I expect you to do what you are told.” He held up the paperwork you were missing. “It seems that you will need to rest for a week to recover. Pain medicine has been prescribed.” He studied everything carefully. “The follow up has been postponed for a week, I see.”

With a casual shrug he set the papers aside. “Why don’t you get well first? Do what I ask, and feel better.”

“So...I need to....” You shook your head. “Get well?”

“I hope that you will feel better soon,” he continued. “The servants will bring you the prescription on time for the next three days. Then, I will expect you to be off of it for your health.” He smirked. “The opioid crisis does not need you as a victim.”

“What? I have a prescription for a week!”

“I will take care of you as long as you obey me and do what I want.” He shrugged. “In a week’s time, I will expect you to be free of the need for the painkillers. You can trust me when I say that these are addictive if not carefully managed.”

“I’ll bet.”

“In a week, I will see you again.” He stood and put the papers in the chair he had been sitting in. “Obey all my orders. The servants will walk with you in the gardens and bring you meals. You are not allowed to leave the estate, but otherwise you will have the freedom of the house.” He smirked. “Do not forget to pump.”

And with that, he was up and out the door, locking it behind him.

During the next week, you settled into a rather comfortable schedule of naps and meals and so on. It was embarrassingly easy to become something of a lady of leisure. Not that you had much of a choice—the entire household knew his orders and made sure that you followed them. Aside from the cursed pump and timer, it was like being on some kind of vacation.

You were asleep, taking a nap, when you heard something in your suite. “Arise little one,” Hanzo said in the evening semi-darkness. “I am hungry.”

You were startled again, bolting upright. The countdown showed 00:00:00 on the television but there was no alarm sounding. How long it had been since your last session with the pump, you had no idea. It had been apparently a very long time—your chest felt hot and unbearably...full from the milk. “Oh...I’m up.”

“Good,” Hanzo purred. “So am I.”

You looked at him dizzily, sitting up. As he had predicted, the pain had not been nearly so bad as you were afraid of and the medication had only been needed for 3 days. “So is this the part where you finally tell me what is going on?”

He smirked, stalking closer and peeling off the black t-shirt before tossing it aside. Clad only in his hakama and a woven belt that circled around his waist twice at least, he looked like a massive wall of muscle as he stalked closer. Smiling warmly, he unknotted the belt and unwrapped it from his body, looping it in his hand.

“I will tell you,” he whispered. You smiled weakly, hoping that he would at last make sense. Instead, he continued, “I will tell you that you are beautiful. That I have been impatient for this week to end so that I could have you.”

You flopped back on the bed weakly, scrambling backwards against the headboard. “What?!”

He knelt on the side of the bed, grabbing your arm. “I am at last rewarded for my patience.”

You were unnerved by the sight of him licking his lips as he leaned closer. “I...what? What do you want with me.”

He snickered—a most unlikely sound coming from such a staid and stoic man. “I will do what I have been dreaming of.” With a smooth movement, he pulled you closer and grabbed both of your arms. “And at last I can.”

The belt—a thickly woven thing—was around your wrists before you could stop him and the last two feet or so dripped down behind your back like a tail. You yelped, kicking out. He laughed heartily, wrapping a heavily muscled arm around your arms and chest. Laughing against your ear, he whispered, “You are...delicious.”

With a wrenching move, he threw you on the bed hard enough to knock some of the air out of you. As you gasped for breath, he twisted you so that you were laying on your back with your legs spread. Gruffly he knelt above you. “You should happy.” He stroked your body through the thin maternity top. “I have plotted for weeks to arrange this.”

“Weeks?” you squeaked out.

He nodded with a grin plastered on his face. “At first I was...unaware of you. How beautiful you are.” He stroked you again and your skin prickled at the sensation of warmth. “Then, when my cousin found you—I could not believe that I had missed seeing such a beautiful creature.” Pulling down the loose maternity pants, he kept looking at you with those predatory eyes. “I watched you. I have been watching you for weeks, watching you bloom and blossom.”

He undid the tie of the hakama at his waist. “It took some planning and far more effort than I normally expend on a female, but I was ultimately successful.” Shucking down the garment, he stood beside the bed, grinning down as his hand gripped his hard cock and drawing your eyes to it. “And now you are the pet of my dreams.”

Your mouth went utterly dry as the desert as you twisted on the bed. “What? How?”

His mouth flattened and his eyes glittered harshly. “I have already told you.” His hands gripped your knees and pulled your legs apart. “I have plotted. Planned for this. And now my reward is my precious little pet who is everything that I have dreamed about.”

You squeaked again as he settled between your legs. His grip was sure to bruise, but there was nothing you could do about it. You wriggled on the bed, feeling suddenly both hot and cold as your skin prickled again.

He laughed softly, bending over your body. “Little pet,” he whispered. “You will satisfy me greatly.”

A meaty hand gripped one breast. You cried out as he squeezed the taut flesh and you could feel your nipples tighten against the soft fabric. Even when he loosened his grip, you whimpered from something like pain. You could feel a slight wet coolness across your chest as small drops of milk began to leak out.

He smiled, his hand turning gentle and stroking across the nipples. “I have wanted to see you like this—your breasts so full that they are leaking with sweetness.” He looked up at your agonized face with a boyish grin. “I disabled the alarm so it would not wake you and I could find you just like this.”

His fingers pulled at your top. You cursed in your head—you weren’t quite brave enough to curse him to his face—as the material stretched. Every maternity top was made of super stretchy and ultra-slick fabric for just such an occasion—when someone wanted to expose the breasts. Without effort, he was able to pull it open and stretch it under both trembling breasts.

Unexpectedly, he puffed a hot breath across your nipples, causing them to tighten into tiny pebbles on the mounds of your breasts. You shivered again helplessly as he licked them gently. Tiny beads of white liquid bloomed up at the tips as he pressed your flesh in his eager hands. “Your breasts are lovely, my blossom.” Once more he took one of the mounds in his hand and squeezed it. “They are so...full and taut. I have dreamed of seeing them so full and hot and filled with sweet milk.”

His head dipped and he slowly took one nipple in his mouth. It was too sensitive and you yelped and wriggled as his lips closed around the nipple. With a gentle intake of breath, he sucked on it. You yelped again painfully, bucking as his tongue scraped the terribly oversensitive flesh. A little bit of the milk squirted—you were intimately aware of the feeling and this brought you no relief from the pressure. He smiled, his eyes glancing up towards your shocked face, and sucked again.

He opened his mouth to grin at you. “Are they too full, my blossom?”

You nodded slightly. “It hurts,” you whimpered.

He dropped his hips and wriggled between your legs. The hard flesh poked further up, reminding you of his arousal. Unexpectedly, you felt heat bubble in your belly. Everywhere that you touched him, he was thickly muscled and his skin was hot and smooth. It was like an exquisite sculpture had come to life on top of you.

He smirked again and gently squeezed again. “I will have you all for myself, you know.” His voice was husky with dark promise. “All of you, for me.” You bucked your hips in protest, but that only drug the tip of his cock against your moist core. He smirked at the movement. “So eager?”

You shook your head nervously. He licked one nipple, amused at the squirming that drug him closer to the warm, wetness he was craving. His belly clenched at the thick desire sliding from his mind to his cock. Wrapping his hand around the other breast, he gently squeezed it, watching as the small spurt of milk dripped over his hand.

You felt a curl of heat in your belly as the handsome man licked the milk off of his hand and then off of your breast. It could not possibly be, but there it was—a thick tongue of heat that made your breasts ache even more and caused more wetness to slip through your core. Moaning, you were embarrassed that anyone should see you in this state and that, in a paradox against your will, you were getting turned on by it.

Very turned on.

Without pausing, he lapped your generous breasts. Using his tongue and those long, elegant and torturing fingers, he coaxed the milk out in unsteady spurts and squirts. Warm, white liquid slid over your breasts and spilled down around his fingers and hands to drip down to the sheets below you. Steadily, the pressure and fullness decreased and a sweet scent filled the air.

He drank what he could catch and he slid into with a slick sound. As you were all but weeping with the relief of emptiness, you caught your breath at the sudden fullness of his penetration. He was thick and warm and throbbing as he settled inside. The hot feeling spread through your thighs and cunt which gripped him tightly.

He slid back and then thrust forward. “You are an eager pet.” He continued licking at the white stream running down over the back of his knuckles. “And now that I have you, I will not be letting you go.”

Balancing somehow—you couldn’t exactly figure out how—he let go of your breast with one hand and pulled your leg up to his waist. You shuddered at the sudden deep thrust, making you feel like his cock was reaching for your soul. Your other leg wrapped up and wrapped on the other side, completing the feeling of fullness as he slid into you again.

He grunted and nodded stiffly as he thrust in as deeply as he could. Grinding hard, he was gratified as you shuddered and clumsily curled upward to him. Your breath stuttered out and you closed your eyes. The tacit approval in your slick movement lit up his brain like a match to gasoline. With a devilish smirk, he twisted his hips and then smiled in delight as you threw your head back and gasped.

“P-p-p-please,” you whimpered as he ground forward.

Hanzo pulled backward and let a milk-stained hand slide down to your cunt. “Please what, miruku josei?” His rough thumb was stiff with callouses and rubbed your engorged clit. You jerked stiffly, your body waffling between unwilling and desperate. “My milk woman should enjoy this.”

You hummed softly to cover the soft whine as your eyes drifted closed. Your entire body was sliding down the slippery slope from protesting to accepting the wells of pleasure that were swelling up. It was harder to remember that you were not here willingly. A rough finger came to your lips and you sucked in the mix of flavors—a thin, mild sweetness was mixed with the heavier tang of your own moist arousal.

He sighed in pleasure. You were curling up against him now, drenching him with your arousal as he kept pumping slowly. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep a gentle pace as you were starting to respond. This was his deepest fantasy—fucking a sexy woman as milk wept out of her breasts—and it was boiling in his blood as he slid against your wet body.

Unexpectedly, you whined and bucked against his hips. He hissed, feeling your body clench, and let you feel a hard pump that he could pour his power into. Your hips almost sank completely into the luxury mattress and you let out a guttural growl. He knew it almost hurt—he felt the bone cracking snap—but the answering shout from you shook all the way from your cunt and into his throbbing dick.

You gasped as the kumicho snapped his hips and the deep thrust in your belly. You clenched, almost bending double and your skin shivered with the zigzag of boiling heat and chilly goosebumps. You seemed to be boiling on the inside and it made you twist as you tried to find relief. Hanzo kept returning to suckle your breasts, worshiping the mounds with whispered praises. His hands slid down and stroked your sides or cheek only to return to gently squeeze your breasts.

It was the greatest high you had ever felt. This sexy man worshipped your body like a pagan at a temple and you felt like a fecund goddess. That made you burn as he dipped his head again, lapping from the base of your breast up to the tip like a child with an ice cream cone. You couldn’t stop jerking every time he suckled—whining his name.

He smiled, watching your face as you called out. Your legs were clenching him, pulling him further in and holding him in there. You were helpless—kitten weak and pleading with him and tugging futilely at at the bindings behind your back. You were barely breathing—panting and sucking in half breaths before letting out soft keening or gasps.

He pulled his legs under him. Your legs tightened around him as your hips were lifted up slightly. His hands went to your hips, pulling you further up and on his cock. Without leverage, you twisted and writhed in his hands. He hissed slightly, feeling you struggle on his cock.

He let a strangled cry, feeling you clamp down on his throbbing dick. His long hair clung to his sweaty back, feeling like he was dizzily trapped in his own boiling fantasy. His mind spun as he watched you in the messy sheets. “I will have all of you,” he growled.

That sent you over the edge. You thrashed uncontrollably, scrambling to clamp down and to push up. The belt’s knots came undone suddenly and your arms sprang free. Twisting your back, you pulled them out from under you to grab his arms. The kumicho pulled back in surprise, but when you pulled on him, he laughed wildly. Leaning over you, he latched onto a nipple and began thrusting again.

Lightning poured into your body as he rocked against you. Finally freed, you buried your fingers into his luxuriant long hair. “I want.... Please.” His only response was to bury his nose into your sweet smelling skin and keep thrusting. You slid one hand down to stroke his thrusting cock before rubbing your clit. Bucking upward, it was like you had been hit with an electric prod and that made you go faster.

So deep. He was so deep and you were swallowing him up like a starving urchin. Seeing you, feeling you holding him close was driving him to the edge like a race car hurtling down the track. You came viciously with an animal cry, pulling and jerking and driving closer in your frantic chase for your pleasure.

His voice was lost in your cry, but it did not stop his inner voice from cheering. This was real. You were really here, lost in pleasure as you stared up at him wordlessly. The sheets around you both were stained with your milk and sweat like a sweet perfume blended just for him. This was not a fevered fantasy that he conjured up to fill an anguished hour of almost relief. This was not the soulless fucking of a strung out whore to scratch an itch. His fantasy had come to life, warm and somehow willing beneath his shaking hands.

He took in a breath, looking at his hands as they shook slightly as they stroked you. He was hard—every muscle aching and tense—as he beat down the climax that was threatening to choke him. Here was what he wanted—to dance on the edge, denying his own orgasm, as you came over and over and you both drowned in the scent of your milk.

There was only one thing that would make it perfect, and he pushed that one thought away you slowly shuddered to a languid stop.

He ground into you again, insisting that you keep taking his cock. The edging pleasure receded, drawing away like the tide at the beach. Instantly, he began thrusting again, curling his hips to stoke his desire higher. His thumb ground on your clit, feeling it grow into a hard nubbin again. You clawed his back like a hellcat, nipping his skin as he kept thrusting.

It was back—that delirious dance on the edge of pleasure. His body could barely contain it, could barely fight back the rush of pleasure and the need to climax. You were really there, crashing through this wave of pleasure with him. Your body—all lush curves and soft sweetness—was again curling into a tight ball around him. His head spun as he tried to suck in a deep gust of air to fight the breathlessness of fucking.

Wordlessly, you wailed as you fought to chase your pleasure. His brain whirled as he sucked in a milk-sweet breath. You were like a drug of sweetness, of lush curves, of a gracious pleasure so high he dared not think of what the plummet down would look like. You were his addiction—a glowing in his blood, a soaring of his senses, an opening of what he had known to be real and sure and a hallucinogen of pleasure. If this was addiction, he did not it to end.

A flash of pleasure gutted him, ripping through him like a spear. The edge stood just under his feet and beyond it he could feel waves of blasting heat pouring over him. Just a step more, a twisting spin, and he would drown in the feeling. He shuddered to feel your clenching thrust, to see your breathless look, to hear your keening wail, to feel your wild thrusting that not only matched, but surpassed his own.

With a hurried breath, he took the plunge and let out a howl. His hips pumped forward with a demonic life of their own, trying to touch your pure soul. He ground in, shuddering as your hips thrust upward blindly and you clawed him closer again. He crept closer to that edge, to the event horizon where he would not be able to resist being drug into his climax.

It was in him to deny himself one more time. He wanted to dance on that edge forever. But then you whimpered in his ear, “Cum...so hard”, and it was a match to a fuse. His mind saw the sparkling of the fuse as it burned and felt the burn growing from his cock to some part inside himself that he had no name for.

Over the edge, hurtling past the event horizon, he saw the fireworks in his mind only moments before the explosion. His body spasmed in showers of sparks and lightning and he fought to make it last as long as he could. It felt like ropes of cum were being pulled from him as he fought to drive in as hard as he could, as deep as he could.

Unexpectedly, you were still thrusting and clinging to him desperately. He was shaking, feeling the last tremors leave him, when he felt you plunge over the edge again. The echo of his climax curled around him as you fluttered and pulsed around his oversensitive cock. You rocked back and forth slowly, mewling like a starving kitten.

He couldn’t help but smile as he felt you sag against him. Your body was soaked and tangled in the sheets. He wanted to lay down, but feeling your slight shiver as he pulled out, hearing the way you mewled when his body finally pulled away. It was like nothing he ever felt.

He pulled you up off the bed with him, cradling you close as he walked to the bathroom. His toes were as nimble as his fingers and he rolled the taps to shower warm water down. He stood with you in his arms in the warm water, relishing it as a thirsty man in the desert. Setting you down gingerly, he took down the hand nozzle on its long hose and guided the spray over your chest and down your arms.

You sagged against him even more, weakly clinging and trusting him to hold you up. Every muscle was limp, exhausted. So you gripped finely sculpted muscles, held on to broad shoulders, and trusted that he was strong. The water melted your last vestiges of strength, making you feel even more weak. His hands stroked and petted, soothing instead of inflaming, and allowing you to relax.

He wrapped you both in the immense towels. You were cradled again in his arms, warm and soothed. Even when he pulled off the damp towels and wrapped you in a blanket, you were unafraid of the big man. He looked with disdain at the mess of the bed, and carried you unapologetically down the hall to his huge bed. If there were shocked faces or protests, he ignored them entirely.

You curled in the bed, burrowing under the sheets and velvety blanket. Almost instantly, you were at the end of your strength and endurance. Darkness enveloped you as you saw his long fingers turn down the lamp until it was barely a flicker in the immense suite. With a yawn, you drew the blankets further over your shoulder and stretched out. It wasn’t more than a few more minutes before sleep wrapped around you.

Hanzo stared, watching you from the shadowed chair. He knew it now—the sweet sting of addiction burning in his blood. He had scorned those foolish enough to spend their money on whatever drugs were sold. He had disdained those who were so weak as to end their lives with such poisons. He had even felt superior to Genji who was addicted to base appetites and carnal urges—fast women, faster cars and shinier toys.

Now, now he understood it at last. The sweet high leading to the inevitable plummet to a low so deep you did not know how you would get up again. The driving need for more and more, just one more hit, one more time. The constant reassurance that just one more and never again. Just one more hit, one more joint, one more puff and things would never go bad again. The utter confidence that you would be the exception, that you could stop any time.

That thought came back to him. The one that he had pushed away. He sighed, texting orders to bring your pump to you, to bring you water and a few snacks. He struggled to push away the thought, to bury it under some mental rug, but it kept sliding out, flickering up and bobbing like a floating apple. He swallowed, accepting the rogue thought and the inescapable low it brought. 

It was the price of addiction, after all—a deep, dark pit until the next high—and he accepted that he was no exception. He wanted and wanted and could not get enough. He knew already that no matter what anyone said or did, he was going to ride this high as long as he could. He was going to keep you here in any way possible. He never wanted to go through another evening alone, never have to dream up another fantasy so that he did not have to face his lonely bed and never have to content himself with only his palm and fingers. So while you were the high he craved with every fiber of his being, he knew that he must accept the drop. So, with a small nod, he allowed himself to feel it—the slide down to hell.

He wanted your next child to be his. He wanted to see you sweetly rounded. He wanted to see your curves, to feel them grow. He wanted to spread his hand across your belly, to feel your growth and feel the trembling kicks. It should be him—a father with strong sons and beautiful daughters. The want gutted him, made him weak.

He could not afford to be weak. He could not want. It would make him hurt. It would pull him in two. And he was...addicted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this started out as a one and done piece of smut. Then...this happened.
> 
> Warning: Violence and really dark stuff here.

Hanzo had a large box of condoms that he had ordered and put on his bedside table. He bought them, told himself he was going to use them, told himself that there was enough in-fighting and splintering of the clan without adding any children to the mix—and then the box stayed there to remind him of his vow.

But even he had to face the fact that addiction had a life of its own.

Each time he could break away from his duties, he hurried straight to your suite of rooms. Each time he found you, he would spread you out on the bed and begin lapping at your tight, full breasts. His hands palmed your nipples, coaxing and begging with long, sensuous strokes for your milk to spill out. He could then lick it up, covering your body with kisses and licks.

Every time, he’d lap at whatever he got as though he was starved for the taste. The first time he found that you had saved the day’s supply in the small fridge in your suite, he was over the moon. He eagerly poured it over your skin and licked it up with wanton growls.

Inevitably, his family noticed. Sojiro only nodded, saying nothing more than both of his sons were young and young men needed outlets. This was always said in such a frosty tone with his right eyebrow raised in just a way that implied that you were unintelligent even for offal for bothering him by bringing the subject up.

Genji, at first, was unconcerned. Everyone knew that he had his own festishes and extremes. But as the days became weeks and then months, even he felt compelled to stick his nose in his older brother’s business.

“Anija,” the younger son began. “Care to tell me what’s so important that we get home?” He sighed in exasperation. “I mean—we could go to a club or do something interesting.”

Hanzo only grunted, looking out the window of the limo impatiently at the red light.

“You know,” Genji smirked. “You have all the signs.”

That caught Hanzo’s attention. “I suppose that this is where you make some banal—and highly hypocritical—remark about excess?”

“Well,” Genji replied thoughtfully. “It does seem like you have all the signs.” He kept talking despite his brother’s flushed cheeks and angry growl. “You rush home every evening. You no longer entertain or go to the clubs. You disappear for hours and you come out looking rather shaken and with a ridiculous smile on your face.

“Offhand, I’d say you’re either in love or snorting some of the best stuff we have.”

“No,” Hanzo grunted.

“No to which?” Genji taunted.

“Both,” Hanzo huffed. “Are you done?” The limo stopped in front of the estate and Hanzo did not wait for the hulking bodyguard to open the door before he hopped out. “Nice talk, ototou. It is good to know that you care.”

Genji watched his brother lope away. “Anytime, anija.” He watched the back of his brother retreat into the building. “Someone has to.”

Hanzo found you on your bed with your shirt off and reading a magazine as the noisy machine puffed and pumped. A wicked smile spread over his face and he immediately pulled off his suit coat, tie and shirt before all but pouncing on you and swiping the magazine out of your hands. With another deft movement, he pulled the cups off and set them aside.

“I hoped to find you exactly like that,” he murmured, burying his face into your breasts. “This is what I’ve looked forward to....”

You sighed happily as he puckered his lips to latch on to your nipple. His lips were soft and warm as he worked to suckle the rest of the milk out. He had caught you just at the beginning of your pumping cycle—so you were full and eager to spill into his mouth. He rolled his tongue to tease just a bit more out before going to your other breast.

He slid down your stretchy, loose spandex pants to your knees. Sliding down his hand, he pressed an impatient finger between your legs and stroked your moist core. There he found a pool of warm slick waiting for him. His mind howled in pleasure that his fantasy was coming true again—a sexy mother gasping in pleasure as milk flooded his mouth. It made his hands shake as he sank into his fantasy again.

He growled against your nipple as your hands crept up to hold his head to your breast. Withdrawing his hand, he tore at the button and zipper of his suit pants. Gulping the scant liquid, he kicked off his pants and underthings. Your loose maternity pants slid off with a whisper of sound before he tossed them aside. Only when you were both naked did he release his lips and even then it was only for a second as his throbbing cock slid into your moist core.

His mind was cloudy and dizzy with pleasure and refused to register the phone buzzing in his discarded pants pocket. Instead, his entire brain was concentrating on gleaning every drop of milk your breasts could be coaxed to give him. The sweet sound of your sighs as he thrust gently forward and the sweeter scent of your milk captivated him. Your whine echoed his own when he realized finally that there was no more of the sweet, rich milk to take.

But there was no time to mourn when your legs gripped his waist and locked behind his back. He ground deeper into you—his cock throbbing to feel your core milking him dry. His blood ached with fire as he pumped even faster into you. He growled as he pictured his milky seed pouring into your body even as you fed him creamy milk.

His rough finger strummed against your clit. You climaxed almost instantly, clutching him desperately as you cried out hoarsely. You were bucking and screaming into his neck. He plunged over the edge himself, groaning into your hair as he pumped his seed into your womb.

Belatedly, he thought about the unopened box on his night table. He should move it in here. But you felt so good—your hot slick against his cock, your muscles clenching him, your sweat and sweetness surrounding him. His breath panted harshly in and out and his muscles ached as your core kept fluttering and milking every drop from him. As good as you felt, how could he force himself to...?

His phone buzzed and interrupted his thoughts as you whimpered. With a fierce scowl, he pulled out, watching as your hungry body seemed to clench his seed inside you. Considering that he had done exactly this just after breakfast, he murmured, “You are voracious.” He drug a finger down your sopping slit. At your flushed whine, he smiled and added, “I love it.”

His phone buzzed again and he answer the call. You didn’t hear much—Genji’s name, a few muttered curses, and his teeth clenching growl. He ended the call, slamming the phone down on the bed.

Instantly, you were concerned. You pushed up to your knees and opened your arms wide. You hoped to hold him, to comfort him, to wipe that look of shock and...something of his face. But instead of the warm lover’s embrace, he shoved you away angrily.

You fell against the pillows without resistance. But instead of following you, he stood and grabbed his clothes, yanking them on.

“What...?” You gasped. “What is wrong?”

He shot you an evil look as he tugged at his heavy leather belt with its holstered pistol. Taking in a deep breath, he looked so distant and cold that it froze your blood. You whimpered again. “What is wrong?”

“You!” he gritted out.

“What?!” You couldn’t help but gasp stupidly at the big man. “What are you...saying?”

“You are what’s wrong!” he bellowed as he jerked on his shirt. Tucking it in, his face was contorted with anger. “It...it is the-the price...for my addiction. My addiction that has cost me—!”

You gaped at Hanzo sadly. Whatever he had been told, it was wrenching him in half. He was almost bent double with his agony. Whatever else was happening, it was slurring and stuttering his usually precise speech.

He stomped out without another word. You stared nervously at the door he slammed behind him. The entire estate was suddenly in an uproar with people running and shouting down the halls. Just as suddenly, it was completely silent.

No one was in the hallways when you dressed and crept out. Not even the servants were out as you slid to the kitchen. Perhaps some milk or something would help your nerves?

You were going back to your suite with a glass of milk when the craziness broke out again. Servants began screaming, crying and everyone was shouting. Heavy footsteps echoed as more screams flowed through the hallways.

You were still in the hallway with your glass of milk, watching everyone mill about, when Genji appeared to stare at you stonily. His normally tailored suit was torn and bloody in several places. His silk tie was untied, but it also had a tear in it and hung limply on his chest. His beautiful face was swollen—his nose bleeding down on his white shirt and a bruise on one cheek.

He glared at you, fists at his sides. “So,” was all he said.

Hanzo appeared in a fury. His suit was spotless except for a trace of blood on his shirt. He glared at Genji and then at you. All but shaking, he waved at you and pointed to the door of your suite. You darted inside your room so quickly you almost dropped your glass of milk.

You softly closed the door behind you. Things were again so quiet that you could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The cool milk was suddenly nauseating. Shivering as if you were frozen, you collapsed on the floor. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on—and everyone seemed to hate you for whatever part you had to play in it.

No one came to you for hours. The cursed timer went off and you pumped blindly. As you stayed on your schedule, your milk supply had increased and, over time, it had become thicker and richer looking. Given how enthusiastic the eldest Shimada son was when you saved it all the first time, you capped the bottle and put it in your mini fridge. Three hours later, a second bottle joined it. Then a third.

Sometime the next day, as you prayed in your room, both brothers came to your suite. Genji’s nose was swollen and a darkly stained cotton ball packed one nostril. His cheek was covered with a motley purple bruise. He had on a fresh white suit at least, but there was a white chrysanthemum on his lapel.

Hanzo was in a similarly pale suit with another white chrysanthemum on his lapel. His face was drawn tightly and his eyes were bruised from lack of sleep. Every muscle was tense and he seemed only inches from going mad.

You stared at the white flowers blankly as shock crept over you. Traditionally—and Hanzo was nothing if not traditional—white chrysanthemums were used...for funerals.

“Pack your things,” Hanzo ordered.

You looked up at him in silent shock. He stared down at you, but you had the unsettling feeling that he was not really seeing you. Finally, you got up the courage to speak, “W-w-w-what happened?”

Genji answered sharply. “Do what he says and do not argue with the kumicho.”

You shook even harder as his words slid into your brain. Everyone at Hanamura knew the pecking order—Sojiro was the kumicho, Hanzo was the wakagashira and second in command, and Genji was third after him. But Genji had called Hanzo the kumicho—which meant that Sojiro...was dead?

“The kumicho gave you an order,” Genji snapped brittlely. “Pack your things or leave them behind.”

You nodded stiffly and grabbed a travel case. Thankfully you could stuff a lot of things in there and even more in the outside pockets—mainly because the maternity wear was all crush proof and very compact spandex. Genji stepped aside as you were jamming a pair of shoes into a pocket to admit a pair of white faced maids with a large suitcase and a box. Whatever you had left behind, they grabbed and stuffed everything inside—including your pumping equipment and your personal papers—in record time.

Then, silently, the maids hauled everything away. Hanzo glared at their retreating forms and then stared back at you. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a small envelope and handed it to you. “Just leave. Do not return. Do not contact me or any of my family ever again.”

You gaped and opened the envelope. A small, pale cream colored check with your name on it was folded inside. Again shocked and shaken, you looked up at him. Bile rose in your mouth, and you bolted to the bathroom to vomit. Retching violently, you cried as you emptied your stomach into the toilet.

“You are not getting any sympathy points,” Genji snapped scathingly. “You have your things. You have money. Go and do not return...or else.”

You nodded, wiping your messy face with your hand. Creeping past both men as they glared at you, you darted to the front door. A taxi had already been called, your luggage and things stowed in the back. The driver was more interested in staring at the fabled estate than who you were and where you were going.

You saw a delivery man pull up behind the taxi. He came out and pulled out a huge wreath of white chrysanthemums and went to the door to drop it off. You gave the absently driver the address of a friend in town. Looking over your shoulder through the rear window, you saw the distraught housekeeper answer the door and accept the flowers tearfully as you were driven away.

Hanzo watched as the taxi drove off. Flowers and condolences were already pouring in, offering false sympathies. The downstairs sitting room was filling with the heady scent of chrysanthemums and lilies. Genji was handling the calls, but there was lot left for him to handle.

Dammit. He cursed violently and lunged to punch a pillow from your bed. If he had only heard the phone the first time! He had no idea that it was his father calling for him to bring reinforcements.

His father had called Genji then, and the younger brother had run out with his men. But it was too little, too late. The Shimada kumicho had been invited to a meeting with a rival gang to discuss an offer of an amicable truce and a unifying marriage with their leader’s oldest daughter. Then, everyone had been ambushed. Genji’s men had arrived at the firefight, driven off the invading gang members, but Sojiro had already been critically wounded.

Hanzo felt his gut clench. Where had he been? He had been lapping your breasts when Sojiro had called for reinforcements after the ambush. He had been fucking and living in a dream world while his father had been fighting for his life. He had been spilling his cum when his father had been shot. He had been about to kill Genji for interrupting his fantasy when he had called again to tell him that Sojiro was already in the ambulance and not expected to make it to the hospital.

He had run from your bed to the hospital, breaking every speed law along the way. He had been too late to do more than hold his hand and tell him good-bye. Genji had been wounded as well, but once Hanzo had seen father, he couldn’t care about anything or anyone else.

Hanzo punched the pillow again, listening to the vicious rip of the seams. He had been too caught up in feeding his addiction to do even the most basic of things. He was the worst of the worst for failing his family, his father, his kumicho.

A servant stepped into the room to clean it and to remove any trace of your presence. Everything was to go—the sheets, any clothes or personal items, any bottles or snacks that you might have opened—and he had ordered it all burned. Nothing was going to remain of his weakness. No evidence of his addiction—his failure—would stay in this house.

He punched the pillow again and feathers flew out over the messy bed. His hand fell on the sheet and he felt a cool, wet spot. The smell of milk came to his nose faintly and he tore the sheet off the bed and ripped it to shreds.

The servant backed away slightly and, rather than disturb the young Master—Sojiro was the Master when he had come to Hanamura and it seemed somehow disrespectful to his memory to call his son “Master” just yet—he turned to empty the mini-fridge. The waters and juices would be dumped—even the unopened ones—but he was flummoxed at the capped baby bottles. Shrugging, he pulled even those out and set them on the top of the fridge.

Hanzo looked over his shoulder and saw the bottles with their pale bounty. Growling, he stalked over to the fridge. The servant backed away nervously, his hands held up. Swiping his arm, he watched as the bottles bounced on the carpet haphazardly. One of them must not have been capped tightly enough because the cap jolted half open, spilling milk on shreds of sheets. The servant rushed forward to contain the mess, to wipe it up with a hastily grabbed blanket.

Hanzo growled low again, looking at the bottles on the floor. It was tempting—oh, so tempting—to snatch up one last bottle and take it with him. He had to stuff his fists in his pockets to stop himself from picking up just one little bottle. He forced himself—whipping himself with his grief and discipline—to leave it behind.

“Pour it all out and get rid of it,” he muttered sourly. The servant nodded jerkily, trying not to look at the young Master’s grief-ridden face. “All of it. Destroy it all.”

“Yes...of course, sir. Master.”

“Nothing is to remain,” Hanzo growled, his eyes flicking everywhere and somehow still seeing you in every corner of the suite. “Take it all out and burn it.”

“Yes, Master.”

He spun on his heel and left. The first thing he needed to do was already decided. The first move would be to annihilate the rivals who dared to this. He went to find Genji, to plan the attack. Genji would be able to root out every single one of the bastards and he would plan the best, most complete and most humiliating defeat that had ever occurred in Japan. It would show the entire Japanese underworld that the Shimada-kai was fierce, unified and unstoppable.

Genji was on board immediately. “Good call, anija. We need to show those bastards not to screw around with us.”

Hanzo nodded shortly. “Gather your men. Start with the Typhoon bar.”

“I should be able to find the low-level thugs there,” Genji nodded. “But what about the higher ups?” He scowled. “None of them should escape after what they did.”

“They will not, ototou,” Hanzo promised, scowling as a group of elders approached them to offer their sympathies and to arrange to offer their loyalty to him. “Every single one of them.” He glanced towards his younger brother. “And I mean all of them—their thugs, their dealers, their assassins, their pimps, their whores.”

Genji’s eyes glittered sadistically. “And then can we bomb the bar?”

Hanzo nodded shortly. “Why not?”

The elders stared at him goggle-eyed. “Surely...M-m-master, you don’t mean to bomb the bar? The Typhoon makes good money. Not when we can simply take it over?”

Genji frowned at them and then looked at his older brother. Hanzo glanced over and then nodded at Genji. “You have my orders.”

“Yes, sir!” Genji clicked his heels and whipped around to get started. “See you tonight, anija.”

That night, Hanzo assembled the elders and his brother. Genji, unsurprisingly, had a full report—thugs, properties, dealers, whores, pimps, who they were paying off and who was paying them. He was twitchy as he unrolled the blueprints of the bar, his hands jerking over the various points that they could expect thugs to be, where the bombs could take down the walls and roof. His eyes were glittering and his mouth kept smiling as he went over his findings.

Ignoring the open-mouthed stares of the elders, Hanzo nodded and approved everything. “When can we get this in place?”

Genji shrugged. “Put a rush on it, and we can be ready within the week.”

“Do not rush it--not this,” Hanzo replied coldly. "I want this to be perfect. Not one of them should escape."

One of the elders swallowed heavily. “Surely...we should wait—?”

“Why?!” Hanzo barked at him. “Why would you want to wait to avenge my father?!” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the other man. “Are you a coward?”

“N-n-no, of course we should avenge your honored father,” the elder whimpered. “B-but can we at least consider that...that maybe we wait until the police have left the area and—.”

“Are you threatening me with the police?” Hanzo pounded the table angrily. “Are you truly threatening me?!” He snapped and pointed at the plans. “Assemble the men. Put the bombs here, here and here.” His eyes looked up at Genji’s smiling face. “Wait 9 hours and then attack their estate. They will gather there to report to their clan. When this is done, I want the kumicho’s head.”

“And the daughter?” Genji shivered, his grin turning predatory. “What can I do with her?”

Hanzo growled. “Give her the head—make her hold it.” He shrugged. “Then do what you like.”

Genji’s smile went wider and his expression was bloodthirsty. “Oh...I like.”

Hanzo nodded and dismissed his brother. Sitting back down, he looked at the abandoned blueprints. It would not bring back his father—Sojiro was quite irreplaceable—but it would make him feel better once all of those bastards were dead. Genji would be even more excited to get a hold of the daughter and give her her father’s head. He would probably even gift wrap it in some exotic paper with a ribbon--he had a bit of a mean streak like that. And afterward, Genji would make sure that she didn’t interfere anymore. Nodding his head slightly at the elders, he stalked out of the room.

The elders stared at each other with shock on their faces. It was highly unusual for Hanzo to be anything but calm and unflappable. The ambush attack was, of course, a challenge that required answering, but they never expected their Hanzo--the heir to Sojiro--to be....

Kaito--a short, thin man with a white tonsure and a darting gaze, sighed softly, "This is not what I...expected."

Sora--a man one could easily tell was soft and well used to being powerful and spoiled--shrugged. "What else were we to do? Allow them to think that ambushing our kumicho was acceptable?"

Aiko--with his short cropped silver hair and wire rimmed glasses and hooked nose--looked puzzled. "But we should not antagonize the police--they are already investigating us far more closely after the ambush!"

Kaito nodded, "Of course, of course." He shuddered. "I am worried that Genji will do something rash." He wagged his finger. "Sojiro never did bring him in line and he's always been wild. Now, Hanzo has unleashed him."

Sora and Aiko both looked at each other, before Sora replied, "It was never our place to criticize Sojiro." He glanced at the other elders and everyone rose. "I think that we should, perhaps, be dismissed. I am late for supper."

Everyone else filed out, grumbling softly. Aiko looked at the soft man with a calculating gaze as Kaito closed the door behind the others. Snorting softly, Aiko whispered, "Now...what are you thinking?""I?!" Sora smiled in the very picture of shocked amazement that anyone could think that he was plotting anything. "I was merely thinking that it is late for supper."

Kaito shrugged. "I highly doubt that. You're plotting Sora." He snorted. "You always mention supper when you are plotting--it's one of your tells." He snorted again. "You couldn't bluff your way out of a paper bag."

Aiko chuckled coldly. "I am also waiting to hear about this plot."

Sora shrugged. "I was thinking that...perhaps we were mistaken in thinking that Hanzo could lead us."

"What?!" Aiko gasped softly. "You are speaking of treason!"

Kaito only laughed cooly. "I am intrigued."

Sora gestured and they sat down again. "It would be a shame to find out that Genji had some hand in the ambush, wouldn't it?" The other two frowned and nodded. "And, the shame of that would be that his own brother would have to go out after him."

Aiko looked confused but Kaito asked, "And how would that happen?"

"Very simply. We let some little rabbit inform each of them that his brother had let some confidential information spill out--information that led to the attack. Our leader would be honor bound to go out after him, wouldn't he?" He sat back in the chair with a satisfied grin on his face. "And then we send them both out to hunt each other. Genji to go after Hanzo and Hanzo to go after Genji."

Kaito smirked. "Which, if successful, would leave...you in charge?"

Aiko nodded slowly. "But that only gets rid of one of them--and the other one would return to discover what you have done." He drew his finger across his neck. "That only makes you bleed to death faster."

"Hardly," Sora shrugged. "We inform Overwatch where they are meeting. Whoever survives gets picked off by Overwatch."

"Overwatch?!" Aiko gasped. "You are involving them?"

"Only as an anonymous tip," Sora clarified. "Even an anonymous tip will be investigated and if there happens to be a cache of, say, drugs or fake bills nearby--then our problem is neatly solved."

"Leaving you in charge."

"Of course." Sora looked at them. "Would you rather have Genji in charge? Wild Genji who has never respected our authority as elders? Who switches between women faster than a spark on a fuse and who can flame into violence without warning? You saw his face--he is eager to bomb a perfectly useful and profitable bar into nothing for the fun of it.

"Or Hanzo--who was here on the estate and let his father's calls for help go unanswered?" Both Aiko and Kaito gasped indignantly. "Would you rather deal with him, knowing that aside from the woman he banished today, he has no vices and no way for us to influence him? With Genji, as long as we have fresh vices, we have a few fingers on the wheel. With Hanzo, we have none."

Both Aiko and Kaito nodded sagely, small smiles on their lips.

The day before the attack, Hanzo received a message from one of the informants his father used. He left at lunch, telling his assistants he would be back before 2. The afternoon pressed on and no one could say where the kumicho was. Even as the day went on into evening, Hanzo did not reappear.

Genji received a short text from his brother--"Meet me."--with a GPS pin showing where. He smiled wickedly. It was a few blocks from one of his favorite adult stores--one of those sinful little holes that provided him with all the tools he needed to exact pleasure and pain on those unfortunate enough to attract his notice. He already had a bag of tools for his meeting with the daughter who was reputed to be pleasant looking and just back from a Swiss school for girls. But it never hurt to see what the latest stock was, now did it?

Hanzo was already hiding in the alley. He grit his teeth harshly. He never would have thought that Genji--his own brother--had deliberately set up the ambush. He trusted Genji with his life--or he had, anyway. His father had made that mistake as well, and paid for it.

The informant had come clean about the entire thing. Genji was going to flee to Overwatch. Sojiro had found out and was going to try and talk with him after meeting the rival gang. The marriage was going to bring Genji in line, give him something to be responsible for, to help him become a man in good standing with the rest of the clan. Instead, the enraged Genji betrayed his father--selling information on the meeting to the highest bidder.

There was a suit case in the strange little store nearby--a store that Genji was known to frequent and that had little lockers for rent so that customers were not carrying home their exotic merchandise where just anyone might see them with it. It was supposed to contain more proof--how Genji had been manipulating the books, how he had been about to defect before Father found out, along with who knew what else. The informant had been a loyal man--offering his information in exchange for the clan's protection from Overwatch and the police.

Most damning was the subtle movement of strangers in the area. People who were talking to the police, talking to detectives and who did not have any discernible reason to be loitering around the neighborhood. One was supposed to be a known Overwatch informant, although Hanzo doubted it--information was the quickest way to die. But several of them had been in and out of this seedy little store and investigated the lockers in the back.

So, he hid in the shadows, waiting for his brother to come. Sora and Aiko had both sent him reports, verifying the information and promising to forward anything else that they found. Kaito had told him about the little lockers in the back of the store--and suggested a few possible key codes to try to open #8.

A taxi pulled up and a sloppily dressed, tall man with a case on his back--maybe a cello case?--went into the store. Hanzo hissed softly--he would know that casual lope anywhere. And that obnoxious case was just long enough to hide a katana without anyone being the wiser, wasn't it?

The tall man came out about a half hour later, shrugging the case higher on his back and carrying a small cloth bag. The head glanced up and down the street as cars whizzed by, and Hanzo came out of the deep shadows just enough that the figure noticed him. It nodded and crossed the street leisurely.

Hanzo drew his bow, retreating further into the shadows as the figure followed him. A few more steps and Hanzo smiled--Genji had not changed. They had always trusted each other, counted on each other when everyone else around them seemed to be playing games. A few more steps into the shadows and the figure found a wide place between some dumpsters to drop his bag and then the case.

With a long breath, Hanzo raised the bow as the figure opened the case and drew out the katana.

It had finally come to this--and only one would survive.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven years later......

Hanzo had only just arrived back in the province. Unsurprisingly, Sora had become the leader of the clan after he and Genji had fought, only to lose huge portions of territory to Aiko and Kaito when he did. Each year when he returned to honor Genji's valiant battle and honorable death, he found out a little bit more of the complicated plot that Sora had put together to drive both of them apart and make them each think that the other was the enemy. So it was with no regret that he broke in each year, took out as many casual Shimada thugs as he could along the way and then broke out. Eventually, Sora and Aiko and Kaito would run out of men willing to die on the anniversary of the death of the Shimada Sparrow.

Posing as another nameless, indigent man lingering on the poorest of streets--he attracted no notice. He had managed to get an oversized casual coat and, as every homeless person he met did, he wore it all the time. No one stopped to notice him as he hauled around the case on his back that now hid his small supplies and his bow and quiver. No, he was just another nameless, featureless face that drifted in and out of the area like so many others.

His migration was a wide swath wandering up and down the countryside. He did whatever odd jobs and day labor he could readily find. Moving companies and the docks usually welcomed an extra strong back and did not ask questions. Construction companies were becoming more picky now--it was too expensive to manage insurance and the like for irregular workers. It was enough to keep him in shape and he could go into any abandoned building or wide alley or field and practice his arts in secrecy before moving on.

Now it was time to drift closer to Hanamura again.

He paused to grab a bowl of noodles from a restaurant and went to find a quiet area to eat it in. There was a series of crowded townhouses with a tiny green quad between the buildings and a single, rusty bench next to a rustier trashcan in it and he made his way there with his scanty meal. For a few hours, he was able to relax and observe. His guilt never let him forget the horrors of his actions, but he could still observe the flow of people with a detached interest.

As he picked at a lone piece of chicken in the bottom of the bowl, he saw a boy child dart across the green. The child was enthusiastically holding a paper kite and running around, but did not seem to be able to get it more than a few inches up in the air before it fell. Then he would giggle and pick it up and run again.

Hanzo smiled at the innocent play. Genji had wanted to fly kites with him, but they never seemed to have time together. There was always school work and business to take care of, and mostly his younger brother was sent off with a servant to try and get the kite in the air. Dutifully, the servant took pictures of the younger brother with his kite and forwarded them on to their father who would make all the right noises about how he was proud that Genji finally got the fluttery thing into the air.

Still, there was something about this child that seemed familiar.

The little boy glanced at him and decided he was nothing interesting before going back to his kite. He picked it up and ran around the tiny area again, the little kite raising up a few more inches.

Hanzo was stunned as the little child stumbled and then laughed at himself, rolling in the recently cropped grass and getting little green specks all over his clothing. It was like looking into a mirror--the sharp nose and cheekbones, way the dark eyes glimmered....

Or...it was like looking at Genji--the Genji from a long time ago. The Genji who played outside and picked up bugs and frogs only to bring them inside and frighten the maids with them. The Genji who would roll--just like that--and get covered with grass and flower petals before darting to the kitchen for a snack. The young Genji who played tricks and lit firecrackers and who he carried home from the park before they became too old and drove instead.

Hanzo shook his head, deciding that the time of year was making him melancholy. There was simply no resemblance--it was simply his imagination and his longing to know his brother. His brother would be laughing now that he was imagining this random child bore him any resemblance. Undoubtedly, wherever his soul was, he was probably not even interested in the brother that killed him. Or, if he ever had been interested, he was not now as much as Genji claimed that Hanzo was boring.

Still, it was nice, for a little while, to look at the youngster pick himself up and try again with his kite. He was a persistent youngster--Hanzo had to give him credit for that. But, eventually, he tired out, looking up at the clouds and the sky longingly.

He sighed heavily and tossed the empty bowl before going up to the child. "Would you like some help?"

The child peered up at him and damned if he didn't look like a young Genji in that moment. "I can't do it today." He shrugged, picking up the kite again and showing Hanzo the painted dragon on it. "I guess there's not enough wind."

Hanzo nodded solemnly. He was about to offer to help again when he heard a shout from one of the townhouses. Most of them were open—windows open and only screen door closed so that breezes could come through—to enjoy the breezes of the fine day and it was hard to immediately track the voice.

"Hanzo? Hanzo!" a female voice called. "Where are you?"

Hanzo jerked, looking around. He could have sworn that he heard that voice before. Except, it wasn't in that low and comforting tone--was it? He would have sworn that....

The child leapt up and grabbed the kite. Without another word, he darted to one of the houses, opening the screen door and running inside. "Mom! Mother! Here I am." He disappeared from view. "I hid really well, didn't I?"

The voice came back--and it sounded so much like you, his head spun and his blood boiled. "You did, naughty boy." A quiet pause. "What were you doing outside?"

Hanzo crept closer to the townhouse, trying to appear casual as his listened at the screened windows. He looked like he was going to rob the place--a homeless or poor man looking to swipe a television or some jewelry--but he wanted to just get a little closer. Hopefully, no one called for the police to remove him.

"Hanzo--here, I have some milk for your snack."

His knees about buckled. Heat swirled and pooled in his groin. Fuck, he wanted--just for a moment--to listen to that voice. He wanted to pretend for a single moment more that he was going....

"What took so long? I've been calling you and calling you." A pause with some muted reply. "I'm so glad that you're back home now."

He had no convenient alley to duck into. He was out in the clear. He told himself that he needed to move on--particularly since someone was calling his name. Except, it wasn't his name. He had long since adopted a series of false names--along with the sketchy paperwork for each one. It was the name of the little boy, obviously. The little boy who looked like Genji when he was melancholy with grief with the perfectly common name of Hanzo.

His grief crippled him, but that sweet, fine high was still singing in his blood. Hadn't he done everything he could? He had burned it all--everything that could point to you. He hadn't even taken the slightest drop of the sweet milk you saved for him. He had then had the servants remove all the furniture and toss it and that room had become and empty storage room filled with dusty boxes.

He moved away quickly, stumbling from the building. A policeman walked past him with a frown and went into another of the townhouses. Between the grief of losing his kin and you, and the terribly sweet heat in his blood, he was all but blind and deaf as he threaded his way back to the dark alleys. His little hovel where he could again sit down and weep.

Why had he thought he would be the exception? Everyone knew that addictions bring a terrible price for the glorious high. He had accepted it, hadn't he? He had accepted the low, the pain of feeding the addiction and had thought that his rampant daydreaming of you having his children was the worst of it.

Except it wasn't. This was the worst--hearing a female voice that sounded like yours calling his former name--and, for just a moment, thinking it was him. Your warm, welcoming voice calling him to home and hearth and once more offering him warm, sweet milk along with soft caresses. Your voice telling him to come in, that he might ask for forgiveness and be welcomed just one more time.

He blocked the meager doorway with the heavy case that held his bow and quiver. Then he took his thick cock out and stroked it. He was so hard, so lonely and so starved, that it almost hurt as his fingers wrapped around it. His mouth was watering as if he could taste your sweetness. With a wordless cry, he gripped himself, jerking down and up and trying so hard to remember everything--your taste, your hair, the way that you gripped him and the soft sounds you spilled out as he thrust in you. And he still wanted it. He still wanted to see your body, your curves. He still wanted--maybe more now than ever before--to have your body round with his child.

That frustrated him, made his gut hurt. He had burned that bridge already--he would never see you again. His cock throbbed and then his hand dropped away helplessly. This addiction made him weak, he reminded himself. This addiction had burned away all of his family--taken everything he had truly valued away from him.

He growled weakly and tucked himself back into his pants. He was worse than any junkie--and no amount of discipline seemed to help. He was weak...so weak, and had lost everything. The only thing left was to mourn Genji and try not to think about you, about the boy that appeared to be about seven years old and who he imagined looked like Genji, and about the soft voice that he imagined sounded like you.

It was all in his head--too little good food and too little warmth and too little sleep with too much sake. It had to be, or else he would be already running back to the townhouse. He would fall on his knees and beg your forgiveness. He would tell you how much he had hurt, losing his father, but that it wasn't your fault and he never should have banished you like that. He would grip that boy, holding him close and vowing to protect that boy until his last breath. He would grab that kite and get it up in the air and hoist that boy onto his shoulder to look at fireworks. He would go out and play, calling the boy "son" and teaching him all he could. He would work--really work--his fingers raw to give you and your son everything he could. He would even give up his vengeance, his mourning, because Genji would understand that he needed to be with you both.

And it was all in his head as he sat in his hovel with tears running down his cheeks, waiting for night to fall so that he could visit empty, cold Hanamura once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Hanzo had returned to Hanamura twice more without visiting the little green quad and the crowded townhouses. Both years, there was some very important reason that he avoided the place. It was too cold or too hot or something. He was late coming through because of a delay somewhere along his migration. There was always some good reason that he avoided the place.

And that very good reason could not possibly be because he was avoiding his addiction.

But it was now nearly the end of his trip again. Ten years had passed since that fateful day and it felt momentous. He had been doing this for ten years—ten years of wandering south, a few days of going around to the Inari Shrine, then heading back north to Hanamura. Ten years of living like a pauper—a tenuous existence of jobs that paid only cash and eating whatever he could scrounge together and sleeping wherever he could find space.

As the Shimada heir, he had never considered what happened to the bums and homeless he passed occasionally in his limo or on his way thither and fro. Now, he wished he had paid attention. He now wished he had given some small portion of his money to the shelters—somehow paid it forward for all the nights that he huddled on some cot or in some corner because it was the only thing between him and the blazing heat of summer or the frigid snows of winter or the pain of starvation.

The shelters were filled with people of all kinds that he had previously ignored. They had been faceless and nameless shapes that he had passed by and he had not felt any particular need to get to know them or their lives. There were poor husbands whose families had fallen on hard times—their businesses closed or their jobs lost to automation. There were young men who were struggling with drugs or alcohol. There were families whose houses were lost in floods or typhoons. There were elderly men whose money hadn’t lasted to the ends of their lives and who were on the street because they couldn’t afford better. There were young men and women who had been tragically sick and no longer had money to pay for their medicine and their other bills. He had no idea what the women’s stories were—their shelter was across town—but he was becoming familiar with the men’s stories. All kinds of stories and all kinds of faces that he had passed by without thought.

Now he was forced to face them. He was forced to face junkies who were driven sick by drugs sold by Shimada dealers. He was forced to face those who were chronically sick from Shimada whores. He was forced to face men who Shimada companies had driven out of their buildings so that they could build a new club or office building. He was forced to face people who lost everything from predatory companies who gambled with their savings. He was forced to face those who were on the run from Shimada thugs or enforcers. He was forced to work in the backbreaking and unsafe conditions by uncaring supervisors who were exceeded only by the gangs on the streets.

He wished he could do it again. Given a little bit back then so that he would now have a truly warm blanket at the shelter he was forced into. Maybe they could afford more food or to house more people. Maybe they could hold families together, rather than the families being forced into different shelters, apart and struggling to stay in touch as they tried to get their lives back together.

But even as he cursed the thin, scratchy blanket or the harsh and lumpy mats and regretted not giving them anything, he realized that it was still a tiny flicker of regret compared to the bonfire of his regret over his brother’s death.

So he was finally back again.

He came to this grassy area because it would have been a defeat not to. He was determined to prove to himself that it was simply all in his mind. He had decided that the boy’s resemblance to Genji was all in his mind. He had decided that the voice he heard was a pointless delusion. So, after three years, he had determined to face his delusions and defeat his demons.

Or he had to admit defeat.

He was lost and had briefly been insane. He had been desperate to find some reason to keep going. Hanzo knew he wasn’t suicidal per se, but he also knew that it was getting harder and harder to keep living. If a car came barreling towards him, then would he jump out of the way? There were days he wasn’t sure he would or if he would only be briefly glad that he was at last at the end of his journey.

Hanzo slunk towards the little green area. The bench was still rusty but the trash can had been replaced. The townhouses were almost the same—the one on the end had a new paint job on the door and shutters and a second one has pink curtains instead of white ones. He had bought another cheap bowl of noodles with a piece of chicken and extra green onions with the faith of a believer at a shrine. With the wishful thinking of a small child with a omamori charm, he thought that he could recreate the scene and finally convince himself that it was all in his head.

He nibbled the noodles thoughtfully as he kept an eye out for the passerby. He looked no better now than he had before. He still looked like a ruffian who was looking for an easy target to rob. The policeman who lived here would force him to move on before his task was done.

He waited and waited. People came and went, staring at him and shuddering before hurrying into their houses. He remembered that look—the wide eyed look of dismay and the slight shudder before hurrying along without looking too closely as though they would be in his shoes if they actually paid him any attention.

He kept looking at the townhouses. He stared at them with every ounce of focus—that same laser focus that had been legendary among the yakuza. He simply looked at that one townhouse—the one that the little boy had disappeared in. Everything else faded, the people walking by, the weather as clouds drifted past, the fluttering and cooing pigeons as they flapped about investigating whether or not he had dropped crumbs for them to eat.

He sat there for what seemed like an eternity.

Hanzo debated getting up, giving up on his pointless quest. It was a fool’s errand, anyway. He shrugged as he comforted himself that it had all been in his head.

Then he saw the boy who was not Genji. His dark hair glistened in its short haircut that went spiky from the humidity in the air and he loped along with his arms full of schoolbooks and his backpack bulging. He was tall and thin and smiled as a school chum—or at least another young man in the same school uniform of a crisp white button down shirt and long dark gray pants—waved and went further along the street. The young man fished restlessly in his pockets and pulled out some keys to open the door to the townhouse.

Hanzo’s mouth went dry. It was not Genji—it couldn’t be—because Genji was dead. Even if he had not personally cut his brother down, his brother would be only a few years younger than himself. It could not possibility be Genji—that young man was...what? He was nine or ten at most.

Hanzo closed his eyes and took in a deep breath to steady his nerves. He had spent the last week walking with only a few snack bars and a plastic bottle for water. He slept under highway bridges and in parks along the way. He could not possibly be seeing Genji, his other half.

Then, he heard one of the immense metro vehicles pull up at the end of the block and several passengers get out. There were happy chatters and shuffling steps. Hanzo opened his eyes wearily, disappointed he could not will himself into a happier time.

Then he saw you. You were older and some few threads of gray were in your hair. You were in a uniform for a cheap, chain restaurant and held two cloth bags of groceries and a rather wrinkled paper bag in your arms. You had gone slender—perhaps even thin—and the curves he worshipped in his dreams were a memory. You looked a bit weary, your eyes focused on your townhouse with the little orange welcome mat. But you were truly there.

It had to be you. He was sure about it, more sure than he was of his own name, more sure than he was of his bow.

You opened the door, shuffling your bags around until you could get inside. Hanzo’s knees went weak and were shaking even as he was sitting there. He fumbled to grab his case—his hands were clumsy and thick and sleepy feeling as they tried to pluck up the handle—and staggered to his feet.

Just once—just this once—he promised himself. He was going to do this just this once. He was going to do this just this time—knock on your door, look at your face and in the face of the boy who he thought looked like Genji, and then he’d leave. He would never, ever do this again.

A hoarse, despairing cry filled his throat and threatened to choke him. When had he told himself that before? How many times had he told himself that? Too many to count. How many times had it ended in disaster? Far more than he wanted to think about.

He shuffled forward towards the townhouse nonetheless. He had shaved this morning before he left the cheap room in the ryokan. He had paid for tonight and tomorrow night—he had somewhere to go, and it felt important to look a little like himself. It had been 10 years since he had been as neatly trimmed as his brother had might have seen him. He was glad now—you would see his face as you might remember it.

If you cared to remember him. 

He frowned. Perhaps he needed to go back to the ryokan and shower or maybe brush his teeth. Maybe he should rinse out his shirt.... You had only ever seen him cleanly pressed, neatly groomed and in well fitting, clean clothes. He had been in name brand clothes—Hilfiger, Armani, or something—rather than whatever he had managed to find in the charity bins. What would you think of the Dragon of the South in a no name coat that had a name patch that he had ripped off, threadbare sweatpants, and ratty sandals?

A scraping sound echoed across the quad. Someone in one of the townhouses across the quad had opened a window. It was like a signal to the neighborhood—several windows opened up. Hanzo crouched uncertainly, wondering if he was surrounded. His skin prickled as he pictured guns aiming out all around him. He was immediately ready to fight—even bare handed, even if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to win.

Then a window opened behind him.

He whirled, looking at the ghostly hands closing the gauzy curtains over the open window. Immediately, he knew it was yours. Your hands that were unmarked and undecorated with ring or bracelet. A smell filtered out—savory beef with onions and garlic and spices—and his mouth watered even more since he knew it was your dinner that you fixed.

“Hanzo?” You called out and his knees did buckle, forcing him to kneel on the pavement. “Hanzo, are you here?”

The archer’s voice went into a crushed timber. His whole being called out to answer that he was here. Here where you could see him and where he could see you.

“In my room, Mom.” That was the boy’s voice. He knew it as surely as he knew that you were not speaking to him. “I’m doing my homework.”

“Dinner is in ten minutes,” you called out.

“Okay, Mom.”

Hanzo felt his skin crawl and his mind whirl. It sounded like Genji was answering you—that boy was Genji’s flesh and blood. The Shimada Sparrow was alive—alive!—and right here and he was going to go in and everything that he had lost was right here. The impossibility of what he saw was blindsiding him.

His mouth went dry and he started shaking. It could not be Genji, he told himself. There was no way that it could be Genji. The Shimada Sparrow would be a mere three years younger than he was—a man, not a boy. But how else was he to explain it? The sharp nose, the eyes, the pointed chin? Could there be a bastard child? No—Genji was flippant, fun-loving and enjoyed his freedom and fun, but he had always been careful to use protection so that he would never be tied down to a child.

In fact—the only one of them that had been careless...was him.

He had spent weeks with you. He kept promising himself that he would stop, that he would use the condoms, but he never did. His entire body shivered as he finally realized it all—that he was a father. The child looked like Genji—of course he did!—because he was the father and Genji was his brother.

He took in a shaky breath and staggered to his feet. He needed to get into that house and if he had to rip the door off the hinges, he would get inside. He would get a bit of that mouthwatering beef and then maybe a sweet dessert of happily ever after. 

No matter what he had to do to get it.

He shouldered the case again. It felt heavy and unwieldy, like the past that was too heavy and lumpy and didn’t fit him any more. This was as ready as he was going to get, he supposed.

He looked at his feet as he lurched towards the orange welcome mat. His father would tell him, “First things first” and that seemed like sensible advice. There was a bit of a stick just beside the cement block in front of the door and he automatically picked it up and stuck it in his pocket. He’d try to ask first, plead, to come in. If that didn’t work, he’d do whatever he had to. It would not be the first time that he had slid out of some situation by pretending to have a gun.

He needed to get in there like he needed to breathe air.

He scuffed the sandals to clean off the worst of the grime that they had picked up. It was as close as he could get to respectable. Raising his knuckles, he took one more deep breath that was filled with the smell of beef and pepper and onions, and knocked.

Your voice let out a startled yelp and he heard the boy—you called him ‘Hanzo’—say, “Mom, the door!”

“I got it,” you yelped.

Hanzo chuckled softly as he looked down at his ratty sandals. The locks—a deadbolt that thunked and a heavy chain lock that clinked—were unlocked. The door swung open and bathed him in cool fluorescent light.

“Yes?” Your voice was cool and trembled a little in your uncertainty. “W-w-who are you?”

Hanzo swallowed heavily. For a blinding moment, he was crippled by uncertainty, but he did manage to get himself to stand upright and look up at your face.

“Oh my god,” you whispered as he finally met your eyes.

“I want—I would like to come in,” Hanzo whispered.

“To kill me?” you asked softly, ducking behind the heavy door. “L-l-look...I’m not....”

He reacted first, opening the screen door and jamming his foot in the doorway. You slammed the door and he cursed as his sandal failed to protect his foot in any way. “Please...please listen to me.”

You crumpled behind the door. There were tears rolling down your cheeks and you were pushing with all your might to get the big door closed. Hanzo sighed heavily, hoping against hope that the policeman who lived nearby was not coming home soon. Then he leaned against the door and pushed his way inside.

“Please...just listen,” he asked softly. “Just listen to me.”

You were shaken and pale, staring up at him with wide, tearful eyes. “What do you want?”

Hanzo reached out his hand, offering to help you up, but was blindsided by a heavy pillow slapping his back. Instantly alert, he looked to the side and saw the child standing there. The child’s breath was panting in and out, his crisp uniform shirt was untucked and he looked up at him with wide eyes. “Get away from my mom!”

Hanzo almost laughed in pleasure to see such spirit in his little boy. Reaching out his hands, he said, “Little one, you do not understand—.”

The boy slammed the pillow into his face with all the force he could muster. Hanzo stumbled back and snatched the pillow instinctively. “Boy, I should—!”

“No!” you shouted back. Panting and crying, you opened your arms to your son. “Hanzo, baby.... I promise that I will explain all this later.” The boy glanced between you and the larger man, a scowl still on his face. “I promise that...that I will tell you everything later. J-j-just go to your room—take your homework and lock the door and d-d-don’t come out until I call you.”

The boy went to you, wrapping his arms around you in a way that was painfully beautiful. He glared up at the intruder, “I should have gotten a knife.”

Hanzo swallowed heavily. “I know,” he replied softly. “But I will not hurt you or your mother.” He raised his hand. “I promise you that I will not hurt you or your mother. I just want to talk to her.”

The boy stared evilly at the tall man. “If you hurt my mom, I’m gonna get the kitchen knife and cut your heart out!”

“Just take your homework upstairs and lock yourself in your room,” you whimpered. “Please, Hanzo...just do what I say.”

The boy shot one last glare at the archer and then scooped up a pile of papers and his backpack and stalked upstairs. The door upstairs slammed and very audibly locked. Hanzo flinched, his fists curling as he resisted touching that boy. He took in a deep breath, continuing his mental prayer that you would listen and that he would have some sort of chance to speak.

You crawled to a small chest and pushed up to your feet. “What do you want?” You shook and walked to the kitchen and the rice cooker and the battered slow cooker to turn them off. “Why are you h-h-here?” Before he could answer, you hissed, “I disappeared like you wanted.”

Hanzo nodded solemnly. Gingerly, he set the case down and then he bowed low. “You.... You are finally....”

“This is my home,” you hissed. “You need to leave.”

“Who is the boy?” Hanzo asked suddenly. For a moment, he felt a twist of jealousy as his past and present and future became a muddled mess. He was driven to ask you, “Were you and...and Genji—?”

“How dare you!” you shouted. “I was...was faithful to you.” Tears poured down your cheeks and you did not dare to look at him. “I love...loved you and you treated me like garbage!”

Hanzo crumpled then, his legs folding completely. His mind refused to process for a moment, but then it all burst in his mind like a firework of understanding. He had known already, but to hear it from you was to learn the truth all over again. He...he was the boy’s father. It was his son upstairs. It was his son that wanted to fly the kite. It was his son that had been inside you, nursed at your breasts and had rushed to protect you.

His son!

You had grabbed a wooden spatula and raised it. You were trembling like a leaf and Hanzo bowed his head. He deserved anything you did to him—to abandon you when you were carrying his child. To drive you out when you were expecting his child—his son who was the rightful heir to the Shimada-kai!—was yet another unforgivable sin to add to the long list that he had on his soul. There was no doubting his son’s parentage, no way for anyone who had seen him or Genji to deny that the boy was a Shimada. He had thrown the boy out, before he had even been born—which was yet another sin he needed forgiveness for.

And he desperately needed to make amends. He closed his eyes in gratitude that he had even this slim chance to make things right. You had paused, standing over him with your spatula trembling in your hand. He nodded, offering himself openly and without resistance.

“Beat me if you must,” he whispered. “Whatever you feel you must to.” He took a last look at your feet—the feet and toes he had worshipped so long ago. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”

That must have been the right thing to say. You shook even harder and had to grip the shaking spatula with both hands. You looked like a cartoon samurai like in the anime that Genji was addicted to.

He refused to raise his eyes. Even the thought of you striking him—something his younger self would have considered a grave insult worthy of a painful death—brought him a great calm as he thought that he might have a chance of your forgiveness. “Beat me if it will make you feel better. I will not resist you.”

“Damn you,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. “Damn you to hell. I don’t....” You sobbed into your hands. “What do you want? What more can you do to me?! What else could you possibly want?”

“What do I want?” Hanzo whispered. “I want...I want your forgiveness.” He curled lower on the floor bowed as humbly as anyone could ever be. “What I did was horrendous. To turn you out—to banish you—when you carried my son—.”

“So that’s what you want,” you snapped bitterly. “You want my son.” You nodded with a frown. “You want to take my son and make him like you.”

He shook his head slowly. “No...I want my son—our son—to be better than me.” He finally raised his head to give your face a quick glance. His heart broke into so many pieces that he had to work to cover it. He had never truly wanted your fear—he wanted your love so much that he ached with it. And your son—how could he not love the child that came from you? “I want our son to be...the best he can be.”

You wept harder. “Please...I have done everything you wanted. Do not—do not take my son away from me.”

“Never,” he said firmly. “I will never take him away from you.” He took a deep breath. “I...want to join you.” He glanced around. “I am...not the man you knew. I have no family, no name. I am...cast out, exiled.” You gasped in shock. “The man you knew has been gone for ten years.”

“What happened?”

Hanzo gulped. “It was a...set up. The night...that night, my father was ambushed by a rival gang. He died that night and I became...the leader of the clan.” He felt himself grow pale. “It was my fault. It was my fault that I did not hear my father’s call in time, not yours.”

“You threw me out,” you hissed. “You didn’t even talk to me—tell me what was wrong.”

He nodded slowly, encouraged by your willingness to talk to him. “My entire clan hated me because they thought that I deliberately ignored his call. They thought that I w-wanted him to die. But then Genji and I were set up by traitors in the clan to fight each other....”

“What happened?” you asked.

“I suppose it will not hurt to tell you—even the street cleaners know the story. I was told that Genji had given our enemies information on the meeting and arranged the ambush. I would guess that he was told something similar, because he met me in an alley ready to fight,” Hanzo said softly. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I...I was so hurt, so destroyed by my loss, I lost my reason. Believing that he was responsible for the ambush and not wanting to face my own responsibility and guilt, I went out to kill him.

“I did kill him.” Hanzo nodded as you gasped. “And before I had pulled my arrows from his body, agents from Overwatch arrived. There was a locker in a nearby store with drugs and counterfeit money in it. I barely escaped—and that was only because they were concerned with examining my brother’s body.”

“It has been ten years,” you whispered in reply. “Ten years and I heard nothing. I did not know if you were dead or alive.”

“I had no idea that you were pregnant,” he sighed, puffing out a breath. “I...I was careless. I was hurting and grieving and I did not care if I lived or died.”

“But Genji said—.”

“Genji thought that you were faking being ill to garner sympathy,” Hanzo choked out. “Many of his ex-girlfriends tried similar things when he decided to leave them. One of them faked being pregnant and then told us that she had miscarried.”

“I...I didn’t know either,” you admitted, crawling closer. “I thought that I was just upset. And then, I lost you. It wasn’t until I had been gone for two months that I finally decided that I wasn’t just tired or tense or upset and went to a doctor.”

Gingerly, Hanzo reached out to take your hand. “I have been so lost. I haven’t been myself. I ran—ran away from who I was, what I had been, and away from all that I had lost.” He shrugged. “And I return each year to honor Genji’s death—and mourn that he had to die to teach me how much of a I monster I was and how little honor I had. I am...I apologize that you were so badly treated—by me.”

He looked up at you, finally willing to let a thread of hope into his heart. He whispered, “Please...let me see my son.” His swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing. “If you have ever had any feeling for me—please let me see my son.”

“I want you to meet him,” you nodded stiffly. “He-he was all I had left when I.... When I was all alone, I had him.” You let out another wet sounding hiccup. “He...he looked just like you—.”

“Like my brother, too,” Hanzo nodded. “I...I looked at him and I saw my brother. I saw the brother I wanted to be alive so much.” He swallowed. “I thought of you and how I could not forget you. I wanted to speak to you one more time, to tell you....beg you for your forgiveness.” He held up his hands. “I am not a threat to you or...or our son. I will do anything in my power to keep you both safe.” He offered you his rough and shaking hands. “I will do whatever you want. I will work to ensure you and he have all that you need.” He shrugged. “I am not a young man anymore, but I am still strong and can find work.” He gave you a small, shy smile. “All I have is what you see here and my grandfather’s bow and quiver.” He gestured to the immense case with a shrug. “It is worth a lot of money and I will sell it.” He gave you a serious look. “So long as I have you and our...our son, I will want only to tell Genji goodbye and then I will be entirely yours.”

“Tell Genji goodbye?”

“I go to the estate every year to honor his death,” Hanzo whispered. “It is the tenth anniversary tonight. I will go and honor him, tell him that I have found you again and tell him goodbye.” He smiled softly, nodding at you. “Genji will understand. He will understand that I must be with you and our son—we must be a family—and that I will never return to the estate.”

“You must honor your dead brother,” you whispered softly.

“I can honor him,” Hanzo sighed with a relieved grin on his face. “I can honor who he was by having the life he once said he wanted—a home and a family outside of the poisoned web of the Shimada.”

You nodded slowly. You had never seen him so beautiful—his relief pouring over him desperately.

“Can we have dinner first?” you replied shakily. “It’s nothing special or fancy, but Hanzo—our son likes it.” He shot him a scowl. “But I will not let you hurt him.”

The archer nodded slowly. “I would be honored to join you.” He bowed low and with a humble expression that gave you no doubts of his penitence. “I am...very grateful to have this chance.”

You and he staggered up like newborn colts. Nervously, you went to the appliances—turned back on the rice cooker and the electric pot. Hanzo padded almost silently behind you. Under your direction, he found the plates and the spare folding chair and both of you set the table. He seemed almost as nervous as you were, almost dropping the big bowl of rice before it settled on the table.

You went to the bottom of the stairs. “Hanzo. Hanzo!”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“C-c-come down for dinner!” You heard thumping upstairs. “It’s your favorite.”

In immediate boyish enthusiasm, your son appeared at the top of the stairs. “Dinner time!” Your son’s smile dimmed as he saw the large man at your back and he scowled fiercely. “What’s he doing here?!” He reached into his bedroom and pulled out a baseball bat. “I told you to leave!”

“Hanzo!” you scolded. Looking aside for a moment, you sucked in a deep breath. “There is a lot that...you don’t understand yet.” You held up a hand. “Please, just put that away and come down here so that I can explain.”

You son scowled fiercely at the archer and for a moment, you could clearly see the resemblance between them. The air crackled as he gripped the bat and then he glanced at your desperate face and nodded, setting it aside back in its room.

Everyone sat down at the table and you were especially tense. Your son had never had to share your attention before. There had always been only two chairs at the table, two bedrooms and two coats on the hooks on the wall. What would he say to suddenly meeting his father?

Thankfully, you had prepared dinner with an eye towards leftovers and had enough to feed three people instead of just two. Your son sullenly accepted his portion, looking balefully at Hanzo. The man attempted to be polite, passing dishes and refilling glasses with silence.

You smiled at your son, and tried to gently tell him. “Hanzo...you know how I told you that your father was...very special to me?” Your son’s eyes went wide for a moment and you saw the archer’s cheeks flush ruddy. “I...I loved your father very much.”

“Then where has he been?!” your son cried with a desperation that seemed born of a hundred tears. “Why can’t he come to my school like all the other fathers? Why won’t he go to my games or—?”

“He...he—.”

“I could not be there,” the older Hanzo interrupted. “And I am sorry.” He set down his chopsticks. “I have been...lost.” He offered a shy smile. “I started things that I had to finish. Things I had to take care of. I found you only recently and I wanted to ask your mother’s forgiveness for taking so long.”

He offered his hand. “I promise you that I will be there for your games and go to your school. I will be the father that you need me to be.”

You son frowned for a moment, looking stern and thoughtful. “But why did it take so long?” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “What made this take so long?”

Hanzo sighed and nodded, looking at you. “When we clean up the dishes, I will tell you. But perhaps not down here.”

You offered, “Up in my room.”

Dinner dishes had never been cleaned up so quickly. Your son’s face was alight with curiosity and he couldn’t move fast enough. All too quickly, you three were up in your room, your curtains drawn and the windows closed.

Hanzo smiled at you and nodded as you twitched the curtains one last time to make sure that they were closed. Smiling, he spoke in a low voice. “My son, what I am going to show you is a big, grown up secret and only big boys can understand such big things.” He twitched a small smile. “Are you a big boy to learn such a big secret?”

Your son straightened up importantly. “I’m almost ten!”

“Indeed,” Hanzo nodded. “And you have been very good protecting your mother, haven’t you?” Your son puffed out his chest. “Then I think you are a big boy who can understand big secrets—and keep them safe.”

Pulling off his jacket, he flexed his arm in your lamplight. The colorful tattoo glistened and the ink dragons seemed to dance as he flexed his muscles. Your son gasped in delight, reaching out gingerly to touch the tattoo. Suddenly interested, he looked up and began chattering, “Cool! That’s so cool! Did it hurt? Who was the artist? How long did it take? Do you have any others? Did you—?”

“Slow down, son,” you whispered. “One thing at a time.”

Hanzo chuckled. “It did hurt,” he nodded. “And it took a long time—about three days.” The archer knelt beside the boy. “And it is a very special tattoo.”

“That must have hurt. Three days to do the tattoo? So it hurt for three days? Wow!”

“More like a week,” Hanzo muttered. “The first day was to do the outlines. The second day was for the blue and darker colors. The third day for the gray and green. It hurt for four days and then it itched. It itched and itched and I could not scratch it or I would damage it.

“But more important is what it means,” Hanzo nodded with a stern look at your son. “It means something important—something secret—and I need to know that I can trust you.”

“Yes! Yes, you can! Oh, please tell me!”

“It is a very special tattoo that—.”

“Are you a yakuza?” Your son’s eyes were alight with curiosity and excitement as the question burst out. You choked on air for a moment at his immediate insight. “Does that mean that you’re in a gang? Like with guns and everything?”

You choked and the mighty man patted your back gently. “I was at one point in my life,” Hanzo nodded slightly. “And it ruined almost everything that I valued.” His arm wrapped around your shoulders gently. “I learned my lessons, but it was almost too late.”

“What happened?”

“I found someone very special,” he replied. “And I was so busy being a yakuza and doing bad things that I almost lost my love and the most precious thing in the world...my son.”

Everyone was silent. You swallowed and looked into the wide eyes of your son—eyes that were surprised and questioning and filled with all sorts of feelings. You nodded shortly. “It...it was—.”

“It was my fault,” Hanzo whispered. “I was...with your mother when my father died. People thought that I deliberately let him die. They told me that my brother betrayed me and my father.” He swallowed heavily. “They told my brother that I betrayed him. So they set us up to fight each other.”

“And you won?”

The archer sighed and shook his head. “No one won. There is no winning when brother fights brother.” He took your son’s shoulders in his huge hands. “I merely survived. That is all.

“There has not been a day that I have not regretted everything that happened. I regret it—I regret sending your mother away. I regret fighting my brother. I regret not listening to my heart and I regret believing everything I was told. I regret...,” he sighed heavily. “I most of all regret not being the father that you deserved.

“But that will end tonight. I will honor my brother a last time. I will tell him that I have found my son and the love of my life—a family that I can be proud of and who needs me. My family needs me. My son needs me. My...my—the love of my life—needs me. And I will not return here to again.”

“Are we going somewhere?” the younger Hanzo asked softly. “Somewhere exciting?” He shivered in anticipation. “I’ll bet you know all the best spots.”

“No,” the archer whispered softly. “We can stay here.” He ruffled his son’s—his son’s!—hair. “I know I do not have much now, but I will work hard to make sure that you have everything you need.”

“Do you have to go tonight?” Your son’s eyes shimmered. “I need you to be my dad now. Right now—not tomorrow! If you go again, you might not come back!”

“I will come back—I promise.” Hanzo gripped his son fiercely, holding him close and tears dripping from his eyes into his son’s hair. The son he had so carelessly cast off. The son he had lost before he had been born. “I will not lose you again.”


	5. Chapter 5

Hanzo stood in the temple. He had not had any trouble plowing through the few guards that had been about the place. It was like he had never left—every stick of furniture and scroll was in its place, just like he remembered it. The orchids he had knocked over last year had been replaced with identical blossoms. The ancient bonsai his father had set out in that window every year was there like always.

The temple was exactly like he remembered. The huge scroll of kanji behind the ancient swords was still there and still had the slight tear in the corner. There was the light above it, creating a pool of light. As he walked closer, he took a moment to study the painting of the dragons.

The dragons of the north and the south circled over his head in their eternal battle. They still circled as they had circled over Shimadas for generations. They were locked in beautiful conflict. He would never forget their breathtaking beauty—how he had lost his breath the first time he had seen them. And after this night, they would keep fighting over Shimadas far into the future—generations that he would never know.

Hanzo knelt solemnly. He did not truly feel so solemn. He felt almost joyful. The burden was almost lifted. There was an end to this journey, and end to this grief. There was at last a point that he could finally say he was finished.

And at last he could face his brother. He lit the sticks of incense he had brought with him, taking a breath that was fragrant with their spicy smoke.

He felt composed and calm as he faced the Ryūichi Moji—Genji’s sword—and bowed his head. He had not stopped talking to his brother—not a day passed that he did not offer some comment in his head in an ongoing monologue. He told Genji of the most pitiable things now—things that he and Genji had taken for granted, but that he found new meaning and new beauty in now.

“My brother,” he mentally began. “I come to you a last time to honor your death. For the last time, I salute you as my brother, my ally and my friend in arms. I honor your battles—the ones that I knew of and fought beside you and the ones that you faced alone because they were my demons of pride, prejudice and foolishness. My vanity convinced me that I alone knew best, and I was foolish to believe accusations without allowing you to defend yourself.”

Hanzo sighed heavily and spoke in a hushed voice. “My brother—you did not deserve your fate. We should have been inseparable and faithful and we were pulled apart like twigs. I honor you and the lessons that your death has taught me.

“And now, I honor you for the last time. I have found the other one who I betrayed. I may not have killed her or the son that she carried, but I betrayed her trust, her...her love and that was worse than killing her.” He knelt low and straightened again. “Life...my brother, life is not what our father told us. He told us to stay with our clan. He told us to always be united. He told us that others did not matter as long as we stayed with our family. That we were superior and what better proof was there than the dragons who have been with us for generations?

“I have found...others. I have lived among them—the ones that our father spat on. I have walked with them, shared their stories and their lives. I have watched them as they struggled. I have less honor than the least of these. I know that now.” He sighed heavily. “I leave these halls to you, Genji. I am leaving behind all of the wealth and violence and everything. I am leaving the strife, the struggles of power. I am leaving to become a better man—a father, a husband. I am a better man because of this—because of the things your death has taught me.

“Okaga sama de,” Hanzo breathed out at last. “I am what I am because of you.”

The last boulder of grief rolled off his shoulders. He straightened, pleased that he had taken the time to do this one last time. His shoulders were light and flexible. He could smell the slight breeze wafting through. He would not spend another moment in these halls that brought him so much pain.

Instead, he would spend his days as a normal man. He would work and have a meaningful job that harmed none. He would have a beautiful woman to come home to. He would have a son who he was already proud of. Perhaps there would be one more son—or a daughter—if it would be. But violence and vengeance would no longer shape his days.

The breeze came through one more time. Hanzo sighed, feeling it brush his shoulders like a wicked tease. His nose tickled, smelling the soft fragrance of earth and woods—as though someone had come in from the woods.

Someone...behind him....


	6. Chapter 6

Your son went to bed fitfully, complaining and fussing. There was a presentation coming up that all of the parents were invited to that he had to tell you about. He wanted a drink of water. He wanted to tell you about how his best friend’s father had brought in a simple robot arm to show the class. He needed to go to the bathroom. He forgot he needed to bring in some extra pencils. He needed another drink of water....

It was gone 10 when he finally went to sleep. You were wired, distraught that Hanzo had been gone so long. If it were not for your son’s insistent questions, you would have believed he had not been there at all.

Finally, you dressed for bed. Pride made you put on the thin nightshirt, rather than the silky nightgown you had gotten from your best friend last year. You brushed your teeth and combed your hair. You turned off all the lights and locked all the doors and windows. For extra measure, you put a ruler in the downstairs window so that it could not be raised.

The little place was deathly quiet and filled with shadows. Normally, it would be comforting—a haven for you to escape—but now it felt even more lonely. That damned man had burst into your life again—hurtling through like a comet in the night—and then vanishing just as quickly and taking your contentment with him.

How many nights had you spent, alone in the dark, trying to forget him?

And now you had to do it again. Except the grief was multiplied—your son was already missing his father. You pulled the covers up and stared at the wall with its haphazard covering of childish pictures.

Something woke you—a soft sound or something—and you bolted upright in the bed. Your head had been whirling around in a dream of reckless heat and strong hands and sweetness, and you longed to go back to it, but there was an eerie feeling that something was wrong.

You crept to Hanzo’s room. In typical boyish fashion, he was sprawled on his bed, snoring softly. You smiled at him and had almost turned to leave when you heard some new sound. Glancing down, you saw young Hanzo’s bat—the bat you purchased when he tried out for the team. Grabbing it, you went downstairs.

There in the kitchen, in the shafts of moonlight and street light, you saw him. He was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, his heavy bow between his legs and his head bent low. His shoulders shook and you could hear his panting breath. The moonlight and streetlights were good to him—showing you his muscular and beautiful form in gentle shades and shadow.

“You came back,” you whispered.

He looked up at you with a gaze that spoke of inner torment. His wide eyes looked haggard and shocked, as though he had seen wars and famine and death unending. His face was pale and all of him seemed somewhere between weary and terrified and hopeless.

“W-w-what has happened?” You set the bat down against the doorway. Even now your heart beat in a stuttering pattern, begging you to go to him. “What’s wrong?”

The bow dropped from Hanzo’s hands with a loud clatter on the floor. You ran to him, pushing on his shoulders as he collapsed into you. His arms wrapped around you and he buried his nose into your stomach.

“My brother,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Genji?” You chided yourself—how many Shimada brothers were there, after all? “What about Genji?”

His arms shook, but they pulled you close. “He...he is alive.”

You did fall. You landed on his thigh. “But...but....”

“I know.” Hanzo swallowed heavily. “I thought he was gone as well.”

“W-w-where is he?” Your whisper grew taut and shrill. “Is he coming for us?! We must leave—!”

“No,” Hanzo muttered. “He...he said that I must pick a side.”

“What?!”

“I must choose,” Hanzo repeated, burying his face into your hair. “But there is no choice. Not for me.”

“You are leaving us,” you whispered.

You felt him shudder. Then a deep breath. “No. I have no choice. My place is with you and our son.” He pulled back a little, staring hauntingly into your eyes. “If you...if you can forgive me?”

“Forgive?”

Hanzo nodded solemnly. “Genji...he said that he forgave me. He said that I needed to forgive myself and to pick a side.” Hanzo reached to the table and pulled the box on it closer. The name and logo of a popular shopping website was on the side and the address was for a small post-office box not far from here and sent simply to “Hanzo” with no last name. “Open this.”

You shakily took the box. The immense archer had apparently opened it already—the thick packing tape over the pieces was slit neatly—and then closed it again. Inside was the most peculiar array of items.

You pulled out a throwing star—a curiosity in and of itself—that Hanzo took and shakily put down on the table. Next were a handful of pre-paid credit cards, each wrapped in a long receipt with the balances on them. There were three passports—one with a much younger picture of Hanzo, one with a rather strained looking photo that had to be from an ID card that you thought you had lost, and one of your son that was obviously taken from a school photograph. Three plane tickets—one for each of you—and an immense folding map of England with a series of red and green dots came out next. A small black dot with a circle around it was clear in the streetlight. Last was a cheap child’s plastic wallet with the Overwatch logo on it.

Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know what the book in the bottom of the box was, but it seemed very, very ominous with its ragged pages, random paper clips, photos and papers jammed in every which way it. You pulled it out gingerly—it was threadbare and worn, the cover cracked and every piece of it obviously touched often—and set it on your lap.

Hanzo sighed and gently put his hand on the cover. “I will not stop you, but I want you to know what it is first.” He nuzzled you like a great dog or horse or some other gentle creature that only wants to comfort. “This is...evidence.”

“Evidence?”

Hanzo nodded shortly. “Evidence of the Shimada-gumi. Names. Addresses. Crimes. Dates and times. Locations. Accounts, banks—even the names of police officers and officials.”

Your hands shook. Evidence like this could get you and everyone you knew and loved killed. It was a one-way ticket to hell. “We must burn it.”

Hanzo shrugged. “There are some who would say it is interesting reading. Who would pay vast sums of money for it.”

“That is crazy.” You hissed at him, “You said that you had left it all behind! How could you betray me like this?”

“I did not,” Hanzo breathed. “Genji did this.” He looked up at your impatient disbelief. “He told me that I must choose a side.” Nodding at the spread out papers on the kitchen table, he whispered, “You must also choose a side.

“Genji...he was the best ninja our clan ever produced. He not only found me, but he also found you and our son. I believe that he would not make a mistake that would leave you in danger, but if he can find me, then perhaps others can as well.” He shrugged and looked away. “I will follow whatever choices you make, but please—hear me out as I explain what this is....”

“O-okay. But make it quick.”

“In looking all of this over, it is clear that he had made plans for all of us to leave Japan together. The flight is a non-stop flight to Europe—to England of all places!—and Genji has generously pointed out places of safety.” He let out a chuff of laughter. “It was our childhood code—to mark the safe places with red and the unsafe places with green. Places that I could meet him were in blue and places he would look for me were in purple.

“The Shimada clan is powerful, but they are less powerful internationally. Despite what our father claimed—that we were the most powerful clan in Japan—there are limits even to that. He has laid out flights and places where we will be safe.

“This book—this is the evidence that will buy our way to freedom.” He looked up at you with a stark expression. “If you choose to stay here and go back to the clan, this book is your ticket to being back in the Shimada clan’s graces—you can point to it as where they need to change to avoid detection. A list of people who have talked or who are about to. So, even without me, you can still buy yours and Hanzo’s safety.

“If you choose to leave, then this is your ticket into safety abroad. This is evidence that Interpol and every other law enforcement agency would gladly trade anything you asked for. You could be free and independent and have a new life where you were not beset by yakuza. Hanzo could grow up without violence in a safe city.”

“Safety? For Hanzo?” Your breath caught. “Anywhere?”

The large man nodded solemnly. “It is your ticket to safety—no matter what.”

“But what about you?” Your eyes went wide and seemed to fill with tears. “What are you going to do?”

He smiled softly. “I will follow your will. If you will not allow me remain with you both, then I will vanish somewhere and you will not see me or be endangered by me again.”

“No!” you hissed. “I will not let you break our son’s heart!” You couldn’t resist and your hand cracked across his cheek. “You will not do that to him...or-or to me!”

Hanzo winced a little and turned his solemn eyes to you. “Then what would you have me do?”

You looked at the papers with wide eyes to avoid the questions in his face. “I-I-I...don’t know what to do.”

“Are we going to stay here?”

“Where could we go that we would be safe?” You looked mournfully at him. “So long as I obeyed you, served the Shimada, I was safe. When I was....when I left, then I was safe. Then you vanished and they did not care about me.”

“Genji...he means to go public with the information,” Hanzo whispered. “He wants to expose them and their violence.”

“How can you know that?!”

Hanzo gestured towards the book. “Because he warned me.”

Your eyes fell on the child’s wallet with the shiny Overwatch patch on it. “He’s joined them, hasn’t he? Overwatch.”

Hanzo sighed. “I believe so. And he has blazed the trail for us to follow him.” He hugged you closer. “I have sworn to my ancestors that I will protect you, follow you and be a father to my...my son.” He buried his face in your hair. “Please...let me have this small thing.”

He whispered softly in a voice that broke sharply. “Please—I have nothing else that I want more than to be a father to our son.” His voice shook more than his hands. “I have no honor—I know that. I have nothing to offer you or him. But even without honor—I can fulfill my promise to you and to him.

“Let me please be a father—the father that he deserves.” He shuddered. “I will renounce all that I have here. Anything you wish. Just let us—let me—be a family together.”

You held the man as his voice cracked. His mighty arms shook around you and held you desperately and loosely. You shivered as you felt him sink into your embrace. He was broken in a way that you had never thought you would ever see another human. The stiff-necked, proud and indomitable Shimada kumicho was now merely a man who had seen too much, done too much and suffered too much.

He stayed silent, waiting for your answer. Who would believe that the Hanzo Shimada was even now humbly waiting for your answer as humbly and fearfully as anyone had ever bowed before him? No one would believe it, which made the whole thing more terrifying.

“We must wake up Hanzo,” you whispered.

“Could I go with you?” The archer looked up plaintively. “I will not do anything—will not touch him—but I want him to know that I do keep my promises....”

You only nodded. “If...if we are in danger, we must leave immediately.” Distantly, you noticed that you were shivering and cold as fear lapped all around you. “I should be packing.”

“Pack lightly,” Hanzo whispered. You looked up at him in shock and he gestured towards the receipts, unrolling one from the glittering silver card it was wrapped around. You glanced at it, front and back. On the front was an absolutely absurd amount of money—about 5000 American dollars—and on the back was a messy scrawl of a series of hyphenated numbers. The archer pointed to the numbers. “I suppose you wouldn’t know, but—unless I am mistaken—that is the pattern of numbers for a Swiss bank account.”

“A Swiss account? What’s next? Robotic housemaids?” Your eyes were wide. There was another series on the next receipt. “A palace?”

“Hardly—but it is enough to get started with.”

You were going to make a shaky remark, but there was a cry from upstairs. You heard a thump upstairs and a rumbling set of steps. Hanzo leapt up and snatched the quiver from under the table. Shouldering past you, he took the steps three at a time and slammed open the door to his son’s bedroom.

You heard the fighting upstairs, heard a man’s deep voice cry out and a thud. You ran as fast as you could, but you were slower than the huge man. A wiry man covered completely in dark gray clothing darted down the steps towards you. Before you could do more than hold up your hands, you saw a larger form appear at the top of the steps. With a whistling thunk, the stranger’s eyes closed and he fell forward. You stumbled backwards down the stairs and the first thing you saw was the thick shaft of the arrow sticking out of his back.

“Hurry,” the archer said.

You picked your way around the twitching body on the stairs and then to your son’s room. His room was a wreck—but this was more than little boy mess. A second body was on the floor and you were surprised to see that the window was opened and shattered.

“Mom!” Your son plowed into you with a horrible sob. “I was so scared!” He looked up at you with a messy face of tears. “Dad...he came in and got the other one.”

You dropped to your knees. “Son...my baby. Did you...are you okay? Are you hurt?”

The little boy shook his head. “I’m okay. J-j-just scared.”

Hanzo peered protectively out the window, another arrow knocked in his bow. Then, he angled to peer out the window. Surprisingly, there was only a tall and slender—and impossibly fast—retreating shadow and a third dark clad figure laying face-down in the grassy quad.

He bit his tongue to avoid cursing in front of his son. Instead, he glanced at you and his son—relieved that you were both in one piece. He couldn’t hear anyone else—could not see anyone else around the building—and for the moment, he shouldered his bow.

Walking gingerly over to you, he opened his arms. It might be too much to expect a hug or anything, but he wanted to at least try. He was surprised to find his arms suddenly full of sobbing hugs.

“I’m scared! I want out of here!” Dark eyes that looked like his own stared up with watery sadness. “Can’t you call your brothers or some others to protect us?”

He gave a little sad smile. “I have given the goons and guns up, musuko.” He paused for a moment. “But I do have a brother who is looking out for us. We need to leave quickly—so grab a backpack of things for the trip.”

Your son’s eyes went wide. “We’re going somewhere?”

“England,” Hanzo nodded softly. “To London—a place called King’s Row. Now hurry. Just grab some things for the plane trip. Some books. A game or something.”

Your son took off like a shot as he scooped up some comics and a few much beloved action figures. You tried not to watch as Hanzo pulled a throwing star out of the man’s back on the floor and pocket it. He caught you watching him and said softly, “Grab your purse.”

You nodded stiffly and pulled on some loose pants. You stuffed the map, passports and cards into your purse and put the tickets in your coat pocket. Hanzo—both Hanzos—came tumbling down the stairs. You stuffed the plastic wallet with one of the cards and the small bills from his piggy bank and then shoved it into his backpack. The bow and quiver were stashed in their large case and the book went into your son’s backpack.

“Mom! Mom!” your son whispered. “Did you know that a ninja helped us?!” He beamed at you—approval for his dad shining in his eyes. “Did you know that?! Where did dad know a ninja?”

You shook your head and shrugged. “Come on.”

You dug a bunch of crushed bills out of your pocketbook to get a taxi to the airport. As late as it was, you only passed one guy on a black motorcycle and a low silvery-white sedan. Hanzo watched them without comment. Your son was exhausted and clutched his favorite plushy stuffed Pokémon—a slender Mewtoo—as he looked at the planes colorful lights as they took off and landed.

By the time that you got there, you were exhausted too. Further out, your taxi had been the only one on the road. But as you slid closer to the airport, you were joined by more taxis and more cars and vans. The extra traffic made you feel ironically safer and more anonymous.

The airport was a busy hub of people coming and going. The three of you were another group of casually dressed people looking for your terminal.

“Genji prepared well,” Hanzo whispered to you, showing you the tickets. “We are here in plenty of time to catch our flight. We have enough time for a snack too.”

You had nothing to check except the big case. Hanzo flinched as he watched the case slide away on the conveyor belt, but otherwise said nothing. Your son yawned and pointed towards a brightly lit snack shop.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

“We’ll get you a snack, but then we need to walk to the gate,” was all the big man said.

Content with a plastic wrapped paper bento box that held dried banana chips, mixed nuts, wasabi seaweed chips, a few chocolate cookies, and a small bottle of water, you swiped the sparkly card to pay for it. And a pack of new Pokémon cards and a new Yu-Gi-Oh manga novel because your son’s nose was stuck firmly in it by the time you dug the card out.

The gate had a mix of Japanese and gaijin—Chinese, Indian, Korean...even a few that looked American. In a corner of the seating area, there was a tall man with dark clothes and skin with scars on his face. The man grunted angrily, scratching at his scruffy chin and pulling his knit cap further down on his head.

“Don’t stare, son,” Hanzo whispered softly as the tall, fair-skinned attendant took the tickets and scanned them.

“He looks...different,” the boy whispered warily and wearily.

“I know. It’s still rude to stare.” You pointed towards a set of chairs and the archer nodded. “Go over there and we’ll have our snack.”

The boy bounced over to the seats. Setting Mewtoo in one of the chairs, he tore open the package and began to eat. You and the archer waited through the checkin process and got back your tickets.

Hanzo pressed close behind you and whispered, “Be careful. We’ve attracted the attention of the big man in the corner. Stay close to me.” He shrugged. “Even without my bow, I think I could defend us.”

Surprisingly, nothing happened. In three-quarters of an hour, you were called to board the plane. The dark-skinned man was seated three rows behind you and a pleasant, large Chinese woman with a friendly smile and thickly rimmed glasses who wore her nut brown hair in a bun was in the fourth seat in your row.

You all were exhausted and shortly after you were at the cruising altitude, you all laid your seats back for a well-deserved rest. Not even the stewardess woke your son as he drooled on Mewtoo and she picked up the spilled cards. You smiled sleepily as he flopped, rolling over and over restlessly.

On the other hand, Hanzo was a restless sleeper. While he was courteously quiet, you did not roll over once that he didn’t have an eye half-open. His dark eyes glanced about cautiously, watching the stewardess and the various people as they staggered about the cabin. Once you caught his eye, he smiled at you.

“Sorry—just...”

“Me, too.”

“It will be fine.” He sat up long enough to grab the water bottle the stewardess had given him and took a small swallow and put it back into the little holder. “I think we will be all right.” He gave you another smile and ever so gently stroked a thread of hair out of your face. “Get some sleep.”


	7. Chapter 7

The address at King’s Row was a very comfortable one after the cramped taxi ride from the airport. You were no sooner in the place with the archer’s case (which made him breathe an intense sigh of relief when he saw that his bow and quiver made it) and your bags—than you all were greeted by a tall, masked man who was fiddling with his pulse rifle.

“You are Genji’s man,” the tall soldier muttered.

Hanzo frowned and looked at the white haired man for a moment. “We could be anyone.”

The soldier pulled out a small device that beeped. He walked up to the three of you slowly, waving it away and then towards you. The beeps grew more insistent as the device approached you all. Finally he cornered your son.

“Son, could I see your backpack?” The gruff voice had some unfamiliar accent that you couldn’t place. “Do you have a wallet?” He pulled out an identity card of some kind with the Overwatch symbol on it. “With this symbol on it?”

Hanzo gestured shortly. “It’s in your backpack, son.”

Grumpily, your son opened it up and took out the wallet. With a practiced move, he popped off the plastic symbol and a thin, round piece of green-gold silicon wafer dropped out. He slid the symbol back in place and tossed the wallet—card and bills and all—back into the backpack and then backed away.

“So, you’re Genji’s man.” He tilted his head. “And this is...your family?”

Hanzo nodded shortly.

“He said that...that you were a good man.” The man nodded shortly. “And he said that you were willing to give us evidence. Evidence to prosecute—.”

Hanzo’s hand sliced impatiently through the air. “We need to rest. My son needs to relax and we are very tired.” He shook his head. “I will give you what you need, but they need to be safe and to rest first.”

“Agent Zhou said that you had hardly slept on the flight.” The soldier waved his hand towards the stairs. “There’s bedrooms upstairs. You’ll be safe tonight.”

The muscular archer nodded. “Our...thanks.” He turned towards you and offered you a smile. “Go upstairs. You and Hanzo. Get a shower and get cleaned up.” He shrugged. “I will settle this.”

“Upstairs? Up those stairs?!” Your son looked up wearily. “Do we have to? Can’t we watch television or something?”

The soldier grunted. “There is a television upstairs as well. Agent Shimada insisted on providing a game system and some games as well.”

“Agent?” Hanzo’s eyes went wide. “So he has turned sides?”

“He said that you were willing to give us the evidence. But it can wait.” The soldier turned aside, showing you the brilliantly colored 76 on his back. “Agent Shimada is expected to arrive tomorrow. He will be debriefed and should be able to visit tomorrow afternoon.” He nodded towards you. “I will let you rest tonight and will be back with him tomorrow so that he can corroborate your story.” He walked past you all. “I’ll just let myself out.”

The white haired man tossed a final comment over his shoulder. “And this building will be watched all night—so don’t try anything.”

Hanzo bit back a bitter remark and only nodded. The old soldier let himself out, closing the door behind him as the archer watched suspiciously. At last alone in the building, you went to him on shaking knees.

“Wh-what now?”

“We will see what happens tomorrow.” He wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder stiffly. It was a little easier each time he tried to reach out to his son, but he was still getting used to reaching out at all. “Why not try and see if you can find this game system that Agent Shimada left for you?”

That led to a chaotic time—trying to figure out where everything was and everything you needed. There were some rather ugly standard issue sweats and a few t-shirts in an assortment of sizes with Overwatch symbols on them. At least the refrigerator was stocked with a variety of food and juices. The freezer had a selection of instant meals in all kinds of languages and cuisines.

Your son was instantly immersed in the video game. The games—a racing game, an action game with soft round and kid-friendly characters, a puzzle game, and a fishing simulator—were very appealing to him and he barely stopped when you gave him a meal of chicken and broccoli.

The whole house was quiet when Hanzo helped his son to bed. He seemed...shaky and unsure as he encouraged the usual rituals of brushing teeth and so on. As confident as he normally was, it was...endearing to see him struggling through being a family man.

You and he were finally alone in the hallway that night. He looked shyly up at you. “You have followed me half a world away. When did I do something so good that I ever deserved your trust?”

You reached out to him, shaking too. “You saved his life. Mine, too.” You couldn’t resist shuddering. “Who were those people? In my...my house?”

“They were sent to get the book.” He shrugged. “I know—knew one of them.”

“And the ninja?”

“It is a long story,” he sighed. “He is...that was Genji.”

“Genji?! Genji?!”

“My brother is...very different than the man you knew.” Hanzo took a step closer. “He is very different than what I knew as well.

“I am sorry that you have been drug into this.” His eyes peered up at you sorrowfully. “My apologies are not enough to make it up to you—all that you have been through. All that my son has gone through.”

He laughed bitterly. “I have nothing to offer you now. Nothing to make up for my past wrongs. I have a bow and my clothes and a book of evidence that might get you killed. I have no money except what my brother has given us. I have no power or clan to protect you. I have no weapons—nothing to protect you with.” He wrapped his hands gently around yours. “I have absolutely nothing to offer you that anyone would want.

“Could you accept someone with nothing?” Your tears seemed to dig deep into your skin. “Could you accept someone who could give you nothing? Who could offer nothing?”

You nodded blindly.

He sighed in relief and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I will do everything I can to be worth you and my precious son.” He dropped another kissed on your cheek. “I will do all that I can to be worth this second chance.”

You tilted your head up. “To second chances.”


	8. Chapter 8

He watched as you went quietly went up the stairs. There were three bedrooms as well as a pull-out couch in the sitting room downstairs, so there was actually plenty of room for the three of you to rattle around. Hanzo was asleep almost as soon as you and the archer managed to get him in the bed and actually staying there. The muscular man half hoped that you would be quickly asleep as well.

The townhouse was quiet. It was a strange feeling to Hanzo, to be surrounded by thick plaster walls with stone and thick wood. The walls might even been stuffed with extra insulation or something to help squelch noises. Hanamura had been traditional and had thin paper walls and nightingale floors and it was almost impossible not to hear people coming and going. Hanzo had found it upsetting and distracting at the time because it seemed like he never was truly alone or in private.

In the open, he had been similarly surrounded with scents and sounds of people coming and going. At first it was disorienting, but he had finally managed to wrap his mind around it. Then there was the comfort of being almost constantly aware of where and who was surrounding him. He considered the rather rank smell was a small price to pay for whatever shelter he could get since he had to admit that he smelled, too.

So, it was more than a little disorienting to hear absolutely nothing from the surrounding rooms and smell nothing more than a generic clean fragrance from the impersonal room. At least he was clean—he had showered briefly before getting his son to bed—but it was practically a compulsion to go back to the shower in the white tiled bathroom and hold the small, individually wrapped bar of lemon verbena soap in the palm of his hand.

There was apparently a huge hot-water tank on the property because he could feel it blistering hot over his skin. It sank in through his thick hair, plastering the dark strands across his shoulders. He was able to rub the fresh smelling suds all over his skin, over his chest, over his hips and flanks, down his legs and all over his bony feet. He chuckled as he stroked his cock and watched the suds flow down to the shiny metal drain because it was a relief to see the bubbles a glistening white rather than a dingy gray.

There was a handful of small bottles of shampoo in a metal basket that hung from the shower rod. The first one was a noxiously over-perfumed floral that he tossed in the trash can almost as soon as he opened it. The second one—which claimed to be “ocean-clean” scented—was marginally acceptable and he decided to use that one rather than try to pick through them.

He washed his long hair twice, sighing in exaggerated pleasure as the heavy mass finally felt clean. Probably for the first time in ten years, he felt clean. He pulled out a heavy towel and dried off. The cabinet beneath the sink offered up a collection of disposable razors, small bars of shaving soap, toothbrushes and toothpaste.

He fought against the urge to pick up a couple of sets of everything and jam them in his case with his bow and quiver. For so long, he had lived on the fringes, picking up—stealing—whatever toiletries and necessities that he could sneak out with. Most of it had been either awful and antiseptic smelling stuff that smelled like it was used to clean hospital floors or it had been heavily scented enough to cover skunk musk.

He pulled on the anonymous Overwatch sweat pants and t-shirt. It was a terrific relief to be actually clean—truly and deeply clean—and warm. Wrapping a towel around his shoulders, he began drying his hair as he padded to the kitchen. There had to be another package of dried seaweed chips to eat and it would be worth going back to the bathroom to brush his teeth again.

The lower floor was deserted and almost dark. You had left one or two lamps on—it was a habit he supposed—which offered pools of warm light in the soothing and dark shadows. There was even a light—the one over the gas burners—on in the kitchen.

Hanzo’s fingers were brushing the cabinet door when he heard the soft, metallic click behind him. In an instinctive blur of motion, he grabbed a heavy butcher knife—it was the best he could grab in a half second—and whirled.

Genji was sitting in the back corner—his lights turned down to a dim, green glow. He waved in an abnormally graceful and deliberate way. “Hanzo.” His silver helmet dipped and rose. “I suppose that I should say, ‘good evening’, anija?”

Hanzo watched him cautiously. “What are you doing here, little brother?” He paused thoughtfully. “I was told that you would not be here until tomorrow.”

“I...uhh...pad my times and managed to get here sooner.” He shrugged with another series of teeth-gritting clicks. “It helps me stay in the old man’s good graces.”

Hanzo scowled. “That never was a concern of yours before.” He looked at the metal man sternly. “As I recall, it was your personal mission to flout your responsibilities whenever you could.”

“And it was apparently your personal mission to constantly remind me of duty and to make me miserable about it.”

Hanzo snorted. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind now that this was, in fact, his infuriating, lackadaisical little brother. With a frown, he flicked his hand. “Let me see your face.”

“Why?” The ninja stirred restlessly. “Haven’t I proven my identity to you? What do you want? Fingerprints? DNA testing?” He growled—a metallic reverberation—and flicked his metal fingers. “You want me to pee in a cup?”

Hanzo snorted. “No...I want to see my brother’s face again.”

After a pregnant pause, Genji nodded. With a surprisingly clumsy move, he began pressing metal bits on the sides of his head and along his jaw line. The visor went dark and hissed before seeming to move forward. With another hiss, his metallic fingers jerked and jiggled the mask up about a quarter of an inch before pulling it away.

A few threads of sweat-slicked, green hair were still on his brow. His face was scarred and seemed to be rubbed raw. Hanzo’s gaze flickered over his features solemnly—trying to reconcile the Genji he knew with the man in front of him. The eyes were the same, though—still with those small flecks of golden-hazel and that same sparkle of mischief.

What he didn’t see was the raging hate he expected. There was an almost Zen peace in them, a peace that made him think of smoky mountain shrines and the endless peace of watching cherry blossoms in the spring.

“Why did you do this?” Hanzo asked softly. “You...you owed me nothing. It would have served me right if you had left me alone in Japan.”

Genji smiled stiffly. “I owed my brother a chance to turn himself around.” He grimaced again as Hanzo flinched a bit. “Sorry—I know I look strange. I.... My face doesn’t quite always work like it should because of the cybernetics.” He shrugged. “I guess I hide a bit behind behind the mask.”

Hanzo leaned against the cabinets. “You are not answering my question. Why did you do this?”

Genji looked up at him. “I did not want to lose my brother.”

“As I lost you?” Hanzo’s hands clenched into fists. “I almost destroyed you. I thought that I had killed you.”

Genji shrugged, his uneasy grimace fading. His voice drifted into a sarcastic tone, “Oh, don’t worry—you did.” He shrugged uneasily again. “I flatlined on the way to the hospital.” He did finally scowl a bit. “Do you want to know what dying felt like?”

Without waiting for Hanzo to answer, he continued. “It sucks to die—and don’t you dare tell me to watch my language, Hanzo. It truly sucks—the whole bright light and realizing that you’re never going to see another sunrise, another beautiful woman, another moment and that you’re never going to get to do the stuff that was really important.”

Hanzo swallowed, his dry throat aching. “Shall we talk at the table?” Genji nodded shortly and followed him into the small dining room. Glancing around, he sighed, “I’d offer you a drink if I knew where there was—.”

Genji grunted and slid to a chair at the table. Reaching down, he pulled out a paper bag wrapped bottle. “Yeah...the old man doesn’t let the safehouse to stock any alcohol.” He unwrapped the bottle and took out a pair of cheap shot glasses. “He thinks it would lead to too much trouble.”

Hanzo nodded slightly. Suddenly, his face twisted as an unfamiliar streak of humor tickled him. “Do you know I haven’t had a new bottle of alcohol in ten years?” He let out a little laugh as Genji popped open the London dry gin. Genji slid a shot glass full towards him. Hanzo looked at the little cup. “For ten years, the only alcohol I’ve had has been shared bottles of beer or discarded bottles from the trash cans behind bars.”

“Oh?”

Hanzo nodded. “The worst one was a bottle of American rye whiskey that was from a filthy bar and it had bugs in it. I had to take a cloth and strain it twice before I could even drink it.” He looked up at his brother. “I stopped drinking for about eighteen months after that.”

Genji shrugged. “I guess I empathize. It’s been about seven years since I have been on a date.” He gave his older brother a silly grin. “For some reason, girls are less likely to give a tin man with a heart a chance.”

Both brothers stopped, looking at each other silently for a long moment. Hanzo broke first and reached for his glass of clear liquid. “It.... I am sorry.”

Genji nodded slowly and took his glass. “It...was not your fault. The clan set us up.”

Hanzo took a sip thoughtfully. “They planned it—Sora, Aiko—.”

“Kaito, too.”

“So is this about revenge?”

“You have absolutely no business lecturing me about the evils of revenge.” Genji grimaced. “But, yes, it is about bringing them down.” His eyes flashed and he continued eagerly, “Don’t you agree?”

Hanzo nodded. “Oh, I agree. Whether you call it ‘revenge’ or ‘justice’, as long as they are punished.” He shuddered slightly. “It will never bring back our father, but they do not deserve to continue as they are.” He slammed back the alcohol, feeling the slow burn in his throat as he set the cup down. “But that still does not explain why you saved me. Or saved my....”

“Your little family?” Genji smirked. “I did not think that I could get the Dragon of the South to come all the way here without his mate and her child.” He shrugged. “She was likely going to be a target once the Shimada started to feel the pinch. I was going to find a way to get her out of the war zone one way or another.”

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. “So...you know?”

Genji tilted his head. “I know that she had a kid, but nothing else.” He shrugged. “There wasn’t time to do much more than a minimal background check if I was going to get the passports and stuff in time. She and the kid are out and safe, but my brother was the important one to me.”

Hanzo laughed softly. “Always cutting straight to the point, brother?” He shrugged. “Did you have any idea that I had found her again?” Genji shook his head. “I found them...him...about 3 years ago. But I could not believe it and only reconnected this year.”

“You were depressingly regular about returning to Hanamura,” Genji shrugged, slamming back his drink. “It did make it easy to find you.”

Hanzo smiled uneasily. He gestured and Genji refilled their glasses. “So why was it so important to save me?”

“You are my brother.”

“I am your murderer,” Hanzo snapped back as he drank the next shot of gin. Unexpectedly, he grinned. “Which sounds bizarre since I am talking to you.”

Genji took his drink. “I know, right? More?” Hanzo nodded and they each got another shot. “But you are also the Dragon of the South. My brother. My debatably better half.”

Hanzo tipped his head slightly. “I would have said that you are my better half.” He sipped half his shot. “But now....”

“Yeah,” Genji shrugged. “Now...things are different.”

“You have no idea.”

“So tell me,” Genji replied playfully.

Hanzo shrugged. “You know most of it. When we...fought, I spent a lot of time traveling. Just...wandering.”

“And what made you come back?”

Hanzo swallowed heavily. “I was...lucky, I suppose. I was looking for some seasonal work—I was hungry enough to do anything that did not check for papers. I was told that there was a new moving company out near the University of Tokyo satellite campus that we went to. Do you remember going there?”

Genji grinned and refilled his glass. “All two years before I decided to just do my associate’s degree and get the hell out of it.”

Hanzo snorted. “So, there was a new moving company looking to cash in on the seasonal moving in and out. They were desperate for cheap workers and it was work for cash. So, I stopped working for the farmer co-op and came closer to home.

“I met this other man by the name of Nobu. He and his wife Tama were trying to recover. Sora and Aiko bought out the building that Nobu’s newsstand was in and closed all of the small businesses in it. They had been taking care of Tama’s mother and did not have much in the way of savings. Nobu then broke his hip and the newsstand was only barely making him a living.

“He went to work as a mover—a grandfather, Genji, working as a mover! I met him as we were moving a truckload of furniture for a student from Hokkaido. He worked hard, working harder than some much younger men that I have known—.”

“What?!” Genji smirked. “Dissing me already?”

“No,” Hanzo muttered. “I was thinking of myself. I had not known truly hard work until.... Well, let us say I was not familiar with truly hard work. I saw him moving with his bad hip—moving unbelievable amounts of boxes. We were driving the truck and talking about nothing and he told me that he had lost his brother in a car accident.”

Hanzo looked down at his drink. “He talked a lot about his brother, and how he wanted to see his brother again. How he would give anything to see his brother and tell him he was sorry for all the the tricks and insults and all the things he put his brother through. That it was all unimportant compared to how empty his life was without his brother.”

Hanzo shrugged again. “It got me to thinking. To looking around and to finally notice what was going on around me. I started with Nobu, talking to him about how his family was surviving since he was living in a shelter for homeless men and his wife was alternating between a woman’s shelter and living occasionally with friends.

“Then I met Kiki who lost his apartment and his wife and family because he had gone to a whore and gotten HIV and was so ill he could not work. Then I met others. Some were running from gangs and violence. Some were out of money because of poor health or families with problems. Some were simply old with no family. Some were so deep in problems with debt or drugs that they had nothing else. Others had made enemies—sometimes even Shimada enemies—and had nowhere else they could go.

“Some of them were like the stories that Father told us—shiftless and uninspired and like dogs who were around only as long as the food was. But as I got to know them, I realized that most of them were so beaten down because every time that they raised their heads, another stroke of luck or something would beat them down. You would not believe the huge, crushing bureaucracy that oppresses them.”

Genji nodded slowly. “Life is nothing like what Father told us.” He sipped his gin thoughtfully. “As I was being patched back together, I found that there was so many good people that I would have never known. Not just the doctors and medical staff—but people who cared for everyone. Even me—even as dark a path I was on—I was...somehow worthy of respect and cared for not because I was a Shimada, not because I was a yakuza, not because of anything I did to earn it—but because I simply was.”

Genji sighed. “Overwatch was in the area—but I suppose that you knew that already. They were the ones who found me.” Genji shook his head. “It was kind of odd. I was just...just a lost cause. I thought that they would just let me bleed out—and it would have served me right.

“But, instead...they saved me. I don’t know, sometimes, why they saved me. When they patched me up—I didn’t understand why. What did they see in me? What did they want? Why would Overwatch go to such extremes to save...me?”

“Do you know why?” Hanzo asked, curious.

“It wasn’t for my pretty face,” Genji joked. “They were in the area already. Part of Aiko’s and Sora’s and Kaito’s plan—to get Overwatch to scoop up whoever survived. You know that.

“But what none of them counted on Overwatch. The medics were called out before anyone else. I couldn’t even speak—I could barely see—and medics were already there and giving me excellent care. The chief medical officer—Dr. Angela Ziegler—took charge of my care without even seeing me or knowing who I was.

“They managed to get me stable. I didn’t feel great, but I was stable and not actively dying. They had finished figuring out who I was—by my dental records for all I know. Overwatch decided I could be an asset, and decided to cut me a deal.”

Hanzo grunted. “And you agreed?”

Genji shrugged. “There weren’t a lot of options. No yakuza gang would give me a chance—not with half a body. No Japanese firm would hire me because I was the infamous playboy Genji. If I was healed up, I could have been tried for hundreds of crimes. I would go to a jail for a few days before another prisoner killed me. Or I’d be released on the streets as half a man—a death sentence.

“Rather than face the Japanese legal system, Dr. Ziegler convinced Overwatch to...make me disappear.” The cyborg shrugged. “I don’t know how—but Genji Shimada went poof and, in return, a cyborg appeared. I’m actually...listed as ‘missing’. And, so, Overwatch made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse—a very expensive cybernetic body in exchange for my help.” Genji’s face contorted into a scowl. “I spent a lot of time as little more than a killing machine—right up until I met my Master.”

“Master?” Hanzo asked, absently refilling his glass. “What do you mean? Was there someone who could take Sojiro’s place?”

Genji nodded. “I was sent on a mission to protect an Omnic towards a peace summit. It was pathetic—just a handful of long-haired weirdos who smelled of drugs and had posters about ‘love’ and ‘peace’ and so on. It was a milk run, right up until someone pulled out a rifle.

“The crowd went to pieces, went violent. I got the Omnic monk to the safety point, but we were surrounded by a panicky mob and had to be evacuated. It was a long, long, long flight to Nepal and the monk invited me to his monastery.” Genji grinned. “I told him to take a long walk off of a short pier in not so many impolite words—that I was absolutely fine—and he offered to simply meditate with me if I would not allow him to pray for me.

“Every time that the Omnic was called to appear in public, he would request me so that I would escort him, provide security. Finally, I gave up and decided to humor him—went to the monastery. He was such a poor liar—telling me constantly that I could not leave because of this or that. He wanted to show me the gardens. He wanted me to meet his fellow monks. He wanted me to see the view from the top of the waterfall. He had a hundred excuses, a hundred things that he wanted me to see or do before I left.

“It wasn’t until one day, sitting on a cold and wet rock and sipping the most abysmal tea—Omnics are amazing, but they absolutely have no idea how to make tea—that it all clicked. Despite all the violence and blood and all of my past and notoriety, it was possibly the first time that I was truly accepted—completely and fully.” 

Genji looked thoughtfully at nothing. “The Omnics—they have this belief that there are no truly bad people. Only bad programming that could be overcome with good programming.” Genji shrugged. “So, truly, the idea of punishment is...foreign to them. A bad program produces bad results and it is not the fault of the vessel of that programming.

“Instead, it is necessary to overcome the bad programming. Then, you can put in good programming.” Genji’s stare dropped to his hands. “So, I had no idea—but I was being offered good programming. I was being shown acceptance and trust. A simple life where I was able to do good for others as well as myself and where I harmed none.

“It was all in small ways and I fought against it a thousand times over. I was mad at the world, mad at the fate that made me half a man. I judged myself by how the world sees me—a half Omnic freak. A hated traitor who was so worthless his brother cut him down and a yakuza criminal.” Genji shrugged again. “But then I was surrounded by those who were hated—just because of who they were. I was surrounded by those who did not hold our father against me. Or you.” Hanzo raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “And I was shown forgiveness and peace.”

“Peace? Can there be peace in this world?”

“Indeed. I believe—now—that there can be peace.” Genji smiled and took another drink. “But I needed to give my brother a chance to find that same peace.” He shrugged. “And the first step was to figure out what my brother was doing.

“That was no problem. There had been a regular event in Hanamura. On the night of a given date, someone would break in to Hanamura and leave a trail of Shimada bodies. Then, after a few hours—long enough for three sticks of incense to burn—the perpetrator would leave.” Genji grinned, taking another drink. “According to the Overwatch informants, Sora stopped the Shimada from demanding cut off fingers and hands for those who made mistakes or cost us..them money. Instead, the Shimada kumicho would imprison the worst of them and if one of them could stop the attacks on that night, then they would be forgiven. It gave him a way to get rid of troublemakers.”

“While I did his dirty work for him,” Hanzo growled, refilling his glass.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” smiled Genji. “So, we knew where you were going to be. It was likely that you walked around because Aiko and Kaito had the public transport and metro trains watched. Which meant that you were lost in a sea of faces right up until you struck on that single night.”

“You followed.... How did you find me?”

“We didn’t. We found your girlfriend.” Genji cocked his head slyly. “It was the best shot we had and so we had her watched.” He shrugged. “It was a long shot—we had no idea if you were in contact with her, but it was a good enough guess to work from.”

Genji rubbed his reddened nose slightly. “Truthfully, we set up most everything last year. The old man—you saw him right?”

“The soldier with the big numbers on his jacket?” Hanzo guessed dizzily.

“That’s him. He is called ‘Soldier:76’ and he has a huge history behind him—remind me later to tell you what I know. He got sick of this and told me that this was absolutely the last year that he was wasting manpower.” Genji let out a hic and continued. “He said that if I couldn’t corner you this year, he was never going to approve the ‘complete waste of his time’ again. So I took a chance, had the passports made up, the tickets purchased, the box mailed.” He grinned a little sloppily. “If I missed you or if you decided to go against us, then I would get your girlfriend out—and the kid—and hope that you eventually would follow her instead.”

“But why the book?”

Genji sighed. “It was a shot in the dark. That maybe I could reach you and flush you out. It seemed a good way to try to get you to consider that maybe you’d be safe following me on this crazy little road trip. After all, if you knew you had a way to guarantee your safety with a whole pile of evidence to do whatever you wanted with, it might be easier to believe that you were really safe.” Genji giggled. “You have always been so paranoid, Hanzo.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “It meant that we are...never mind.” He waved his hand. “So you were going to drag everyone out of the country?”

“Well...we didn’t count on someone telling the Shimada kumicho about our little plans. They followed along and kind of interrupted things.” Genji flushed dark red. “I really did mean to give you some time before trying to contact you. To give you some time.”

Hanzo sighed heavily. “I...I am grateful you were there.”

“You seemed to be,” Genji smiled. “Although I think I scared the kid.” The ninja cocked his head. “So, she had a kid, huh?” Genji’s speech was slurred as he asked, “Is it yours?”

Hanzo scowled as his hand slammed the table. “Of course, Hanzo is mine.”

“Hanzo? She named the kid Hanzo? Really?” Genji giggled. “She named her kid after you?”

Hanzo grimaced. “Yes...she did the perfectly normal thing of naming her son after his father.” He grossed his arms over his chest. “What is so strange about that?”

“Must make dinnertime interesting,” Genji giggled again. “Is there at least a ‘junior’ or ‘senior’ or ‘the second’ something?”

Hanzo groaned and rubbed his head. “It is...difficult enough.” He flushed a dark red. “I...did not know she was pregnant—.”

“Pregnant? She was...really pregnant?!” Genji’s face went pale except for the rosy spots on his cheeks. “She wasn’t faking?”

“No, she wasn’t!” Hanzo growled. “She was genuinely pregnant.” He grunted in irritation. “And you did not help matters.”

“What?! Me?” Genji giggled and shrugged, “What did I do?”

“You. Were. There. You thought she was faking as much as I did!”

“So...what happened to her?”

“She left—was exiled. You were there when we drove her out of the estate.” Hanzo shrugged with a dark flush. “She left, got a job, did well enough that she bought that townhouse that I found her in.”

“And you rushed in to help her?” Genji laughed outright. “A samurai in shining armor?”

Hanzo groaned. “Hardly that. I was wandering around and...I was...lost. Seven years passed before I even knew where she was.” He slammed his fist on the table, causing his shot glass to topple. “I missed...so much. I missed his birth. I missed his first word. I missed his first step. His first day of school.” Hanzo gasped and tried to stop the tears in his eyes. “I missed so much of my son’s life. All because...I was too proud. Because I could not believe that someone—anyone—would ever...ever want to be with me if I had nothing. I could not believe that anyone would actually want...just me.”

“Hanzo....” Genji’s voice was soft.

“And so when I saw her son,” Hanzo whispered. “I...thought I saw you.”

“Me?!”

“I thought that it was you. I told myself that it was impossible. But I saw you,” Hanzo said softly. “I saw you as the child I wanted you to be—innocent, carefree, happy. I could not believe it. For a while, I even believed that he was your son.” Genji guffawed. “But I....”

“What?”

Hanzo closed his eyes. “I.... She is my addiction. The addiction that I thought cost me everything.” He swallowed heavily. “I was with her...when Sojiro died. I was with her. I was.... I blamed her.” Hanzo growled low in his throat. “I actually saw Hanzo—my son and practically ran away because I...wanted to have you back.”

“You...rejected her? Your son?” Genji’s eyes flashed angrily. “How could you?” Genji grunted lowly. “And...she’s been in danger every moment for the past ten years because she has birthed the Shimada heir?”

Hanzo nodded, groaning. “I know.” He shrugged. “We were only...just a few hours. Together for a few hours. I told her that I was going to honor you one last time and then return to her. I-I was going to be an ordinary person with a job and a wife and a son. I was going to be someone she could love and respect. A father to my son.”

“Shit,” Genji cursed. “And I ruined it for you?”

Hanzo glared at his brother. “It was...inevitable that I would be found, I suppose.” He puffed out a breath. “But, yes...we had just managed to get on the same page. I was finally back with her and you dropped all of this on us. When the other Shimada ninjas attacked, we agreed that we—. Well, she decided—.” He shrugged. “Never mind. We decided to...follow you.”

Genji gulped nervously. “I didn’t think that.... Well.... I—never mind.”

“I told her that I would follow her. Whatever she chose. If she chose to come to London, I would. If we remained in Japan, I was going to help her use your little diary to her best advantage.”

“Even if it meant rejoining with the Shimada?!” Genji’s voice was incredulous. “You would go back to that life?”

Hanzo scowled. “I would have done anything to help her and my son.”

Genji paused for a moment, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You are an honorable man—to take care of your family with no thought of the cost to yourself.” He nodded regally. “I...hope to be worth it someday.”

Hanzo gave him a black look. “You are already more honorable than I.”

Genji shook his head. “No.... To be worth following like that. To be worth following across the world on the strength of a book of clippings and a few bits of paperwork.” His eyes were wide in respect. “To be worth the honor of having...someone like you to follow to hell and beyond.” He gaped. “I...I can’t wait to meet my sister-in-law.”

Hanzo finally smiled. “You would not believe how good she is.” He grinned. “And my son. Do you know that he attacked me? Then he threatened to cut my heart out?”

Genji laughed. “Really?” He stuck out his tongue impudently. “I would be really impressed if he didn’t sound just like you. How many times did you threaten to cut my heart out?”

Hanzo laughed. “Almost as many times as you pranked me.”


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of masculine laugher woke you up. You staggered downstairs to find Hanzo and a tall, cybernetic man slouching at the dining room table. An empty bottle of gin was laying on its side between them and one shot glass was on the floor. Blinking blearily, you stared at the two of them. Both men were laughing wordlessly.

“Genji? Hanzo?” Your words blurted out as you stared at them. “What is going on?”

Hanzo giggled. “Do you remember that girl? The one at school with the pink glasses?”

“She was the one who followed—.”

“Followed me into the boy’s restroom?!” Genji howled with laughter. “And we got detention for it.”

Hanzo nodded and looked up at you. Suddenly his face went solemn. “Oh....”

Genji paused for a moment and stared at you and then his brother and then at your sleepy scowl again. “Oh, you’re in trouble, Hanzo!” He giggled. “So this is the little wife, huh?”

“Wife?” You looked at the archer sleepily. “Is this a joke?”

Hanzo shook his head slightly. “I...I am sorry we disturbed you.” He staggered up to his feet. “Please...this is my brother, Genji. We were....”

“Going over old times,” Genji supplied helpfully.

“What?!” You took a deep breath. “Okay.... Look. We were asleep and now...you are...drunk?”

Hanzo walked to you. “We apologize. We will keep it down.”

You nodded uncertainly, glaring at the ninja. “We have to meet with that guy tomorrow.”

Hanzo nodded and Genji staggered to his feet. “Go back to sleep. We will—.”

“Just keep it down to a dull roar,” you snapped grumpily.

Genji and Hanzo watched you stalk back up the steps and go back to bed. Genji whistled softly. “Holy hell.” The ninja looked at the archer. “She’s as grumpy as you are.” He held up his hands. “I just got my brother back—I’m not going to get him killed because he married a dragon lady.” He nudged his brother. “Go back to bed. I’ll appear tomorrow afternoon with 76. Bring out the book, say that you’re going to give evidence—like I told him you would—and he’ll make sure you all are safe.”

Hanzo nodded, watching up the steps silently.

“You...ahh.... You did marry her, right?”

Hanzo shook his head slightly. “There wasn’t time.”

Genji grunted shortly. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it taken care of.” He nudged his brother’s shoulder again. “Get upstairs and get some sleep.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. This turned out a whole lot more fluffy than I ever originally thought it would. It started with a 1 chapter one-shot and the fans asked me to add to it. Then again. 
> 
> This is now, I guess, complete. ;) But I still will listen to requests and try to wrap them into new fics and new chapters for other things.

The next day was sleepy and slow and rainy. Hanzo slept in the third bedroom and you did not feel like it was a good idea to disturb him. Instead, you fixed some breakfast and watched your son play his video games and watched television. Glancing out the window at the soggy sidewalk, you saw strange faces in a variety of colors and appearances. It was impossible to tell who might be an enemy or a friend. And with that leather book still in your son’s backpack, you did not want to risk another incident.

So, you waited patiently. Sort of patiently—you did spend an hour wandering throughout the townhouse looking for the cybernetic ninja. Of course, he had vanished with the dawn, just like one of your son’s stories. You finally settled down, switching your attention between Hanzo and his games and a rather crude paperback book you found on the back of the toilet in the bathroom.

The archer staggered downstairs holding his head around 11:30. You offered him tea or coffee and he drank a sports drink and then a cup of very hot tea. He nodded at his son’s explanation of the rather intricate game he was playing.

Around one in the afternoon, after a whole pot of tea, Hanzo felt vaguely human. His son was insistent on telling him every detail of the game and finally he was able to join the game himself. The buttons and controller was far more complicated than he had ever used.

“Looks like you beat me again, son,” he grinned.

Your son nodded, pressing a few more buttons. The victory screen came up, congratulating your son on the best play of the game. “It...it’s complicated.” He smiled innocently up at his father. “I’ve wanted to play this game forever. All the kids at school had it, but Mom always said that the game system was too expensive.”

Hanzo nodded. “Well...we will see what we can do. I think that if your mother and I work together, then we can do all kinds of things.”

“Do you know a lot of ninjas?” The younger Hanzo’s eyes lit up. “Like...are you like some kind of secret ninja master or something?”

Hanzo choked again. “N-n-no. Just...he....”

The doorbell rang just in time. You were grateful to go to the door and peek through the peephole. Two men in trench coats and hats stood facing the street on the rainy front step. The archer took one look at your face and slunk to just beside the door. Picking up a heavy poker from the fireplace, he nodded slowly.

You opened the door and ducked behind it. Surprisingly, the two men turned and nodded politely. The one in front touched his cap and you gasped to see the frowning face of 76. Gruffly, he asked, “May we come in?”

Hanzo listened carefully, then nodded slowly. You backed up and let the gentlemen in. They shucked off their wet coats and hung them respectfully up on hangars in a small closet by the door.

76 stood there awkwardly, nodding vaguely at you. The tall cyborg behind him had his faceplate on, but you could just tell it was Genji staring down at you. “Good...good afternoon.”

Genji’s voice had an odd, metallic ring to it. “He...just returned from an emergency in Italy. So we are both a little jet lagged in one form or another.”

Hanzo nodded slowly and thoughtfully as he moved between you and the two men. Over his shoulder, he offered you a small smirk. “Go get the book and make sure that our son keeps playing his game. I will handle this.”

You were burning with curiosity as you brought out the backpack and handed it over. The three men walked to a small study and closed the door. You had no other direction, so you went back to watch your son with his game. You fixed sandwiches—something quick and easy to eat—and waited.

You did not realize that you were, in fact, praying fervently, until the study door opened and the three men came back out. The huge soldier in the leather jacket held the book carefully as the ninja and archer stood silently by. His voice was gruff and had that odd accent that you couldn’t place. “I can’t tell you how long we’ve tried to bring the....”

“The Shimada yakuza,” the ninja supplied helpfully.

“Err...yes,” the soldier nodded. “We’ve been working for over five years trying to gather enough evidence to bring them to justice.” He offered his hand to Hanzo. “And...we are grateful that you are willing to help us.”

Genji cleared his throat and Hanzo slowly shook the soldier’s hand. “In exchange for my family’s safety.”

“Of course. Their safety is paramount.”

“Good,” Hanzo muttered.

“And, of course, your position is secure as well,” Genji smirked.

“Of course,” 76 repeated gruffly. “We will help you relocate to the main Watchpoint. We have another family here in London and her wife needs relocation assistance as well.” He nodded stiffly. “Welcome to Overwatch.”

Without another word, the soldier slid on his wet trench coat and hat. He pulled a dark umbrella out of a pocket and stepped out to the sidewalk. A convenient taxi picked him up and whisked him out of sight.

You closed the door as the two brothers regarded each other. For a moment, instinctively, you tensed. Hanzo and Genji had, before, had spats and rows that everyone could hear. But, instead, the sound you heard was...completely unexpected.

“Cool!” you son shouted.

All of the adults turned to look at the wide-eyed youngster as he stood in the hallway. It was the archer who recovered first. “Indeed. Very cool.”

“You’re the ninja, aren’t you? You threw the throwing stars at the bad guys in the bedroom and then jumped out of the window and bang and got another one on the way down and bam and—!”

Genji nodded slowly. “Indeed.”

“Can you show me how you did it? Pu-lease! Pretty pretty please?” Hanzo jumped around the room excitedly. “How do you throw a throwing star like that? How do you jump out a window? Aren’t you afraid?”

The ninja shot a small look at the archer. Finally turning to face the boy, he nodded. “I will show you if you father gives his permission.” He took out his trench coat and fiddled with it, finally balling it up as he fished in the pockets. “And we will use these until you are proficient.”

Hanzo’s eyes widened eagerly as he crept closer. The ninja held out some flat rubber throwing stars. “Really?”

“Yes. If we can find a hallway and prop some pillows at the end—.”

Hanzo was up and running upstairs, pulling on the ninja’s gleaming metal hand. “The best hallway is up here!”

Genji stumbled a little and tossed the trench coat towards the archer. “Hold on. Be patient! Wait up!”

Hanzo caught the coat and suddenly smiled mysteriously. “Well...Uncle Genji may have just met his match.”

You giggled as he deftly unfolded the ball and hung up the coat again. Then you looked up the stairs. A small flash whizzed past the top of the steps and your son made a happy noise. You laughed again at the second one that went sideways and bounced down the first few steps.

“Try again,” Genji’s metallic voice was clear in the quiet townhouse. “Practice.”

Hanzo’s firm hand was on your shoulder and he tugged you away from the staircase. “Let them have their fun. Come with me.”

You grinned up at the boy as he scrambled to get the throwing star and disappeared back down the hallway. Then you followed the archer into the study.

He looked down at you smugly. “Well...I think that Genji and Hanzo will be kept busy for a while.” You nodded curiously, amused that he had his hands clasped behind his back like a small child. “I have a rather...respectable position in Overwatch. We may move around a bit, but it is good money and our son will go on to university without a problem and we will be safe.”

You nodded again. “That’s...good. Are you hiding something?”

Hanzo’s face split into a grin as his arms came slowly between you. Cupped in his huge palm was a tiny, red velvet box. Nestled in the folds of cloth inside the open box was a thin golden ring with two perfect blue sapphires, surrounded by diamonds. “I find the use of diamonds to be...almost symbolic of mourning. They always looked like tears and reminded me of white chrysanthemums. So, instead, I wanted to give you...something special. 

“The blue reminds me of how the sky looked when I first saw our son. How I imagined his baby blanket to be. How sunny the sky was when I finally saw you again. It reminded me of my dragons—how one needs the other and that they should never be parted.”

He looked anxiously at your face. “Do you like it?” You nodded tearfully, afraid to hope or think. “Then will you do me the honor of being my wife?”


End file.
